Harry Potter and the Eternal Realm
by JBean210
Summary: When Harry goes to the Zoo with the Dursleys on Dudley's 11th birthday, he meets Samantha Stephens, who learns that Harry is a distant cousin and that he's being mistreated at home. She rescues him and she and her mother Endora begin teaching Harry witchcraft. A Harry Potter / Bewitched crossover, for now the story will categorize as HP only.
1. The Zoo Visit

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 **Chapter One**

 **The Zoo Visit**

 _Published_ 6/21/2015  
 _Last Updated_ 8/21/2015

 **=ooo=**

 _June 23, 1991—_

"All right, we're here," Uncle Vernon said, as they pulled into the parking lot at the zoo. He turned to look in the back seat, where Dudley, his friend Piers Polkiss and Harry Potter were seated. "We're going to have some fun today, eh boys?" Vernon said jovially, smiling at the other two boys, then turned to Harry. His demeanor immediately turned gruff. "And _you_ , boy — I don't want any trouble out of you today, d'you hear me?"

"No sir," Harry said.

"What's that? What's that?!" Vernon demanded.

"I mean, yes sir," Harry quickly amended.

It was amazing he'd gotten this far, Harry thought as he piled out of the car behind his cousin and Piers. His aunt and uncle had planned to leave him with their batty old neighbor, Mrs. Figg, whose house always stank of boiled cabbage and cat pee, and who talked incessantly about all the cats she'd ever owned, including showing him photographs of them in an old album. But she'd broken her leg and couldn't take care of him that day.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been frantic, trying to figure out what to do with Harry. Dudley had pretended to cry, trying to keep Harry from going to the zoo with them, but there was nothing else for it. Oh, Vernon had made it clear enough that Harry wasn't to do or say anything, absolutely _nothing_ , weird or out of the ordinary while he was at the zoo with them! In Vernon's own mind he was completely justified in doing this.

Weird things happened around Harry sometimes. He wasn't _trying_ to make them happen — in fact he had no idea _why_ they happened. But they did.

Aunt Petunia, tired of his unruly hair, had once taken a kitchen shears and cut it so short he was almost bald. But the next morning his hair had grown back to its normal length. He'd spent a whole week in his cupboard for that, even though he couldn't explain how his hair had grown back so quickly. Another time his aunt had tried to make him wear one of Dudley's old sweaters, but the more she tried to force it on him, the smaller it became, until it would barely fit on a hand puppet. Amazingly, he wasn't punished for that, as Petunia thought the sweater must've shrunk in the wash. But he'd _really_ gotten in trouble when, as Dudley and his gang were chasing him after school one day, he suddenly found himself on the roof of the school kitchen. The Dursleys had gotten a very angry letter from the school's headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But Harry had no idea how he'd gotten on the roof. He supposed that the wind must've caught him somehow and thrown him up there.

It was a sunny day, and Vernon was already sweating as they entered the zoo. "Alright, boys," he said, taking out a kerchief and wiping his face dry. "What would you like to see first?"

"It's hot," Dudley complained. "I want some ice cream!"

"Me, too!" Piers agreed.

Harry started to open his mouth, but immediately thought better of it. The quickest way _not_ to get something was to ask his aunt or uncle for it.

"All right then, we'll find some ice cream," Vernon agreed, and they were off in search of an ice cream parlor. A few minutes later they found a van selling ice cream out of it, and Dudley and Piers both ordered large cups of chocolate. Harry hovered to one side, watching the lady fill their cups with scoops of delicious chocolate, his mouth watering but knowing his aunt and uncle would hurry him away as soon as Dudley and Piers got their cups.

But then he had a bit of luck. As the lady handed Piers his cup, she turned to Harry and asked, "And what flavor would you like to have?" before they could hustle him away from the van.

Harry started to open his mouth to order a chocolate as well, but Vernon stepped in front of him. "Er — the boy is allergic to chocolate, I'm afraid. Sorry." He put a hand on Harry's shoulder to steer him away from the van.

"I have some nice ices," the lady called out. "Cherry, strawberry, or lemon."

"I like lemon," Harry said, before Vernon could say he was allergic to that.

Vernon shot him a furious look, but under the ice cream lady's inquiring gaze he reluctantly nodded. "A lemon ice for the boy, then. A small one." The lady squirted lemon flavoring on the ice and handed it to Harry, who smiled happily as he took it from her. Vernon's beefy hand dropped onto his shoulder, squeezing hard, and he was steered away from the van.

"Let's go in here," Vernon pointed to the gorilla house, just inside the main entrance. It was a bit cooler inside, which seemed to calm his uncle down a bit, Harry thought. He had been decidedly hot under the collar after buying Harry the lemon ice. He watched a gorilla scratching its head as Dudley and Piers stood laughing at it, thinking it very much resembled his cousin, though with black hair instead of blond.

The rest of the morning was okay. Harry walked behind and a ways apart from the Dursleys, reminding himself that if he was out of their sight they probably wouldn't be thinking about him much. It was also a good idea to keep himself away from Dudley and Piers; if they got bored they might resort to their old game of "Harry-hunting," and Harry wanted to avoid that if he could. True to form, by lunchtime the two boys were bored with looking at animals and wanted something to eat. Preferably ice cream again, though Petunia insisted they eat a proper meal in the zoo restaurant. In the restaurant Vernon ordered hamburgers and chips for himself, Dudley and Piers, while Petunia ordered a salad. Nobody asked Harry what he wanted to eat, which wasn't unexpected. After all, he wasn't even supposed to be here in the first place!

Harry watched hungrily as Dudley picked over his hamburger and chips, then ordered a knickerbocker glory for pudding. Piers wanted one as well. A tall glass filled with ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate syrup was set in front of Dudley, making Harry's eyes goggle. It looked too big to _anyone_ to eat, even his cousin!

But Dudley was determined to have a go at it. He attacked the dessert, spooning mouthful after mouthful into his face, until it was nearly half gone. Then, "Wait a minute," Dudley complained. "There ought to be more ice cream here!"

Trying to forestall a tantrum, Petunia reached over, stroking Dudley's blond hair. "Popkin, we can have them make you another one with more ice cream." She looked desperately at Vernon. "Order another one. Have them make it right this time!"

Vernon called the waiter over and tried to bully him into making Dudley another dessert free of charge, but the manager appeared, pointing out that over half the dessert was already gone. Vernon complained loudly that he was being cheated, but he finally gave in and agreed to pay for a new one. When the second knickerbocker glory appeared, Dudley pushed the first one away and dug into the fresh one.

"Piers," Petunia asked the Polkiss boy. "Would you like to finish this one, too?" Piers, who'd been holding his stomach after eating his own dessert, shook his head and burped, looking queasy. Petunia stared at the half-finished dessert with a frown; she hated to waste food they'd paid for. "Vernon?" She pointed to the dessert, but he shook his head as well.

Finally, she turned to Harry. "Well," she said reluctantly. "I suppose _you'll_ want to eat it, won't you?" Hesitantly, Harry nodded yes. "Alright, go on, then, but mind you don't make a mess!"

Harry nodded, reaching over and pulling the dessert in front of him. It didn't even matter that Dudley had ravaged the dessert before pushing it away — it was ice cream, after all. But Harry could feel Dudley's dull eyes watching him all the while he was eating the dessert. He was going to pay a price for eating it, he could tell.

After lunch they went to the reptile house, probably because Vernon had read in a zoo programme that it was kept much cooler than outside, and the noonday sun was becoming quite warm. There were all sorts of lizards and snakes kept there, all behind glass windows, all busily crawling and slithering over the wood and stones and rocks in their habitats.

Dudley and Piers were busy, too, tormenting Harry. No longer interested in the zoo animals, Dudley had decided to punish Harry for eating his dessert, even though his aunt had given it to him. They were pushing and elbowing Harry, knocking him down then telling his aunt and uncle that he had clumsily fallen. Not that Vernon or Petunia even realized what was going on — in their eyes Dudley could do no wrong, nor could any of his friends. The only thing going for him, Harry decided, is that there were only two of them rather than all of Dudley's gang.

Luckily, once they were in the reptile house, Dudley and Piers's interest perked up again. They went looking for the biggest snake in the building, and they found it — a huge boa constrictor with powerful looking coils. Dudley's pug nose pressed up against the glass, staring at the snake. "Come on, move," he told the snake. The snake, which looked like it was sleeping, didn't move.

"Make it move," Dudley ordered his father. Vernon leaned over and tapped on the glass. The snake still didn't move. "Do it again," Dudley said, but the snake slept on. "This is boring," Dudley moaned. He pushed Harry out of his way and moved to another window.

Harry watched him and his parents walk away, deciding not to follow. No use giving Dudley another opportunity to take out his frustrations on him. He looked at the snake again, feeling a bit sorry for it. Like him, it was locked up as it slept, with people rapping on his door to wake him up in the morning. Only this happened to the snake all day long. And it had only the one room, while Harry had an entire house to roam around in. Of course he also had to _clean_ the house every day, under his aunt's watchful eye, so there was that to consider.

Harry leaned forward, putting his face against the cool glass to see the snake better. He was so engrossed in staring at it that he jumped when a voice very near to him said, "Fascinating, isn't it?"

Harry jerked back, turning and staring at the woman standing next to him who had spoken. She was a pretty blonde lady with a small child next to her, a little girl with hair as blonde as her own. "I'm sorry," the woman said apologetically. "I didn't mean to startle you, young man. Were you enjoying looking at the snake?"

Harry nodded. He finally found his voice again. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "I've never seen a snake this big before, not even in pictures."

"He is rather large," the lady nodded. She crouched down and spoke to the little girl next to her. "Would you like to see the snake, Electra?"

"Yes, Granma," the little girl said, lifting up her arms so her grandmother could pick her up.

"Alright, up we go, then," the woman said, picking her up. "My, you're getting big for Granma to pick you up!" She held the little girl in front of the glass.

The little girl rapped on the glass with her little fist, saying "Snake! Snake!" Harry said nothing, but thought that if Vernon hadn't gotten a response, a little girl wasn't about to, either.

But at that moment the snake suddenly opened its eyes. Its head moved slowly upward until it was level with the little girl's face.

It _winked_.

 _Huh_? Harry thought. Had he really seen that? If the woman holding the girl had noticed anything, she only said, "Maybe we can get it to say something. How about it?" she said, seeming to address the snake directly.

The snake was motionless for a moment. Its head turned to Harry, then back to the little girl. " _What do you want me to say?_ " Harry heard a raspy voice hiss. Harry looked quickly at the woman. Had _she_ said that, trying to make the little girl think the snake had talked?

"Oh, anything you like," the woman said, smiling at the snake.

" _Well, I wouldn't mind a nice, fat mouse and a day or so to digest it in peace_ ," Harry heard the voice hiss again. _What in the world was going on_? Harry wondered, bewildered by what he thought he'd heard.

"It spoke," he said aloud.

"What?" the woman looked at him, surprised.

Harry pointed at the glass. "I heard the snake speak," he said. "You were talking to it, and it spoke back."

"Don't be silly," the woman said immediately. "Snakes can't talk, or understand what people say, can they?"

"I didn't think so until now," Harry said. "But you—"

"MR. DURSLEY! DUDLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE!" Piers, who'd crept up behind them, suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs. "YOU WON'T _BELIEVE_ WHAT IT'S DOING!"

"Oh my stars," the woman muttered, standing up and backing away from the window with the little girl in her arms as Dudley came waddling over at top speed. With his vast bulk between Harry and his parents, Dudley punched Harry in the ribs, knocking him down. The wind knocked out of him, Harry scuttled back out of reach as Dudley and Piers pushed their faces right up against the glass, yelling at the snake to do it again. Pressing his hand against the pain in his side, Harry stared up at them, wishing they would fall in.

The next moment, he almost got his wish.

Dudley and Piers both jerked forward as the glass window suddenly vanished. Both boys howled in terror and leaped back, pointing in horror at the snake, which began uncoiling itself and slithered out onto the floor.

The reptile house was in instant chaos as everyone suddenly realized a large snake was loose. People began screaming and running for the exits. Vernon and Petunia grabbed Piers and Dudley (but not Harry) and dragged them back as the snake emerged from its habitat. As it slithered past Harry, the snake turned its head toward him, and Harry heard the hissing voice say, " _Thanks, friend, and tell that little girl 'Hi' for me… Brazil, here I come_!" As Harry watched, speechless, the snake left the reptile house.

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. "What happened to the glass?" he kept asking, of nobody in particular. He was running back and forth between Petunia and Dudley, both of whom were nearly fainting from fear. Dudley insisted the snake had tried to bite off his leg, and Petunia had become hysterical just thinking about that. Harry, forgotten in the immediate aftermath, had moved in to a dark corner and stayed there, hoping to go unnoticed until everyone had calmed down.

"Can you hear me?" a by-now familiar voice suddenly said, next to him. Harry looked over, seeing the same blonde woman he'd seen earlier, and the little girl with her.

Harry nodded at her. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "I was kind of hoping nobody could see _me_ here."

"So you can see me, too?" she asked, softly. Harry nodded.

"Interesting," the woman said. "May I ask your name?"

"It's Harry Potter, ma'am," Harry said.

The woman nodded toward Vernon and Petunia. "Are they your parents?"

Harry shook his head. "They're my Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon," he told her. "The blond boy is my cousin Dudley. The other boy is a friend of his, Piers Polkiss."

"Are you visiting them?" the woman asked in a kindly voice.

"No," Harry said. He hesitated a moment, but the woman had such a friendly face and voice… "My parents are dead. They were killed ten years ago in a car crash."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," the woman said. She crouched down and put an arm around Harry's shoulders. Harry flinched involuntarily; normally the only human contact he had was his aunt poking him awake in the morning and getting pounded on by Dudley and his gang. "You're shaking," the woman said.

"Sorry," Harry said, looking down in shame. He had to admit, the woman's arm on his shoulders felt warm and comforting. He couldn't remember ever feeling that way before.

"Don't be sorry," the woman said. "You have nothing to be sorry for. My name is Samantha Stephens." She put her other arm around the little girl standing next to her. "This is my granddaughter, Electra. She wanted to come back and make sure you were okay."

"Really?" Harry looked at the little girl. "Thank you," he said to her. "It was nice of you to think about me." She smiled up at him. Harry noticed her eyes; they were as green as his own. He looked at the woman again, seeing now that they were eye-to-eye that her eyes were green as well.

The woman must have realized what he was staring at. "You have green eyes, too," she said, smiling at him. "They're the same shade of green as mine." She suddenly looked thoughtful. "I wonder…"

She didn't go on. "Wonder what?" Harry finally asked.

"Never mind," the woman said distractedly. "Is it alright if I come see you again sometime?" she asked, an intense look on her face.

"Um, sure," Harry said. "But how are—"

"BOY!" Uncle Vernon's voice suddenly rang out through the reptile house. "Where the devil are you?!"

"That's my uncle," Harry said, looking around to see where he was. "I better go —" But when he looked back the woman and little girl were gone. He hadn't even heard them leave.

"Let's go!" Vernon bellowed. "We're leaving!" In the car on the way home Aunt Petunia, Dudley and Piers were all gibbering incoherently about what had happened. According to Piers, the snake had tried to squeeze him to death, and Dudley maintained that it had almost taken his leg off. As far as Harry could remember, the snake had nipped playfully at their heels as it passed them on the way out of the reptile house. The keeper had given them all tea to calm them down. Vernon, fed up with everyone's crying and whining (as well as not wanting to pay for the tea) had gathered them all up and quick-marched them out to the car, where he drove straight to Piers's parent's house to drop him off.

Everyone was calmer by the time they reached the Polkiss home. Piers got out of the car, said goodbye to Dudley, then turned to Vernon and said, "Harry was talking with the snake. Weren't you, Harry?"

Harry shrugged like he didn't know what Piers was talking about. Vernon just laughed. "Well, that sounds like something the boy would do, doesn't it?" Piers shrugged, walked up to his house and went inside.

Vernon then gave Harry a glare that might have made him burst into flame, turned around in his seat and drove home in silence. At the house, as soon as they were inside, he grabbed Harry by the collar. "Go — cupboard — stay — no meals," he managed to sputter, so furious he could barely speak. He pulled open the cupboard and pointed inside. Harry reluctantly went in, and Vernon slammed the door closed.

Harry lay there in the dark for hours, wishing he could tell what time it was. He had to wait until the Dursleys were asleep before he dared leave the cupboard to find something to eat in the refrigerator. Finally, he thought he heard a faint snore coming from his aunt and uncle's bedroom. It was probably safe to proceed.

The knob to the latch was on the outside, but Harry had a piece of cardboard he used to work the bolt open. He pushed the cupboard door open, going very slowly so it wouldn't creak. He should try to find some lubricating oil to use on the hinges, but food was the bigger priority at the moment. Creeping into the kitchen, Harry carefully opened the refrigerator and considered his options.

There usually wasn't a lot of food in the refrigerator that he could safely take. Both his uncle and Dudley ate a _lot_ of food, so there wasn't always much in the way of leftovers. Sometimes the only thing Harry could do was find a few pieces of bread and spread butter on them to keep his stomach from cramping with emptiness.

This time, however, there was a plastic bowl with some salad makings in it, and that was better than nothing. There was no salad dressing in the bowl, so he'd have to go without as well. No use giving Aunt Petunia any clues that he might be making midnight visits to her precious refrigerator. An idea came to him, and Harry heaped some of the lettuce, carrots and onions from the bowl onto a slice of buttered bread, then covered it with another slice, making a sandwich of sorts. He pulled a glass out of the kitchen cupboard and ran a trickle of water into it from the sink until it was almost full. His midnight meal complete, Harry put everything in the kitchen back the way it had been and snuck back down the hall to toward the cupboard.

As he started to reach for the door a tall female form was suddenly in front of him. Harry jerked away in surprise, falling on his backside, dropping the salad sandwich and spilling most of the water as he covered his mouth to stifle the gasp of surprise that threatened to spill out of him.

" _Here_ you are," the blond woman's familiar voice said softly. "I thought you'd be in one of the upstairs bedrooms — oh, I'm sorry," she apologized, realizing he'd fallen. "I didn't mean to startle you again!"

" _Shhh_!" Harry hissed. He pointed up the stairs. "They'll _hear_ you!" he whispered urgently.

"Don't worry," the woman told him. "They can't hear either of us, I've seen to that." Harry shook his head, confused. _How could she keep them from hearing us_? he wondered to himself.

The woman looked at the half-open cupboard door. "Were you going to hide in here while you ate your sandwich?" she asked, opening the door wider to see what was inside. "Oh, my word," she gasped softly.

Inside the cupboard was the rude bed Harry had made from torn blankets and sheets. The shelves built into one of the walls had a number of items stacked on them: bits of string, a marble, a jack, a half-used eraser Harry like to play catch with. Scattered on the floor were various old shirts, pants and socks, all cast offs from Dudley's younger days. "Harry," the woman said, in a shocked tone. "Is this where you _sleep_?"

Harry didn't want to admit it, but— "Yes," he said.

"How long have they made you sleep here?" the woman asked him.

Harry shrugged. "As long as I've lived here. About ten years." Sensing some kind of judgment on her part, he added, "It's not so bad once you get used to it."

"Not so _bad_?" The woman — Mrs. Stephens, Harry finally remembered her name — stared at him in disbelief. "Harry, you shouldn't be living in a cupboard!" She shook her head. Harry could somehow feel a growing anger in her. "Well, that's enough of _that_!"

What did she plan to do? Harry began to panic. "Please don't say anything," he pleaded with her. "I don't know what my uncle will do if you say anything to him!"

"Harry, _no one_ should be treated like this," Samantha told him. "I have to do something about this! Especially now that I know who you are."

Harry looked confused. "Who I am?" he asked. "I'm — I'm just — Harry Potter."

"Well, you _are_ Harry Potter," Samantha said, smiling at him. "But you are also my third cousin, 23 times removed, descended from a marriage between my father Maurice and a woman named Marjory FitzStephan, who were married for a time in the early 11th century, before he met my mother, Endora."

"Oh," Harry said, understanding almost none of that. "Okay. But I don't know what all that means," he admitted.

The woman, Samantha, smiled at him. "What it means is that I went to the Book of Ancestry and traced your family, the Potters, back to the Peverells, who came to England in 1066 A.D. during the Norman invasion. One of the Peverells, named Ignotus, met a FitzStephan woman who'd descended from my father, and they married. Since then our family lines have been intertwined down through the centuries."

Harry was shaking his head uncertainly. "I still don't get it," he said, honestly. How was it possible to know all that stuff?

"Well, what it all comes down to is this: you have warlock blood in your veins," Samantha told him. "That means you're a warlock."

Harry just stared at her. "I'm a warlock," he finally repeated. "That's like, some kind of magician, right? You mean that I can do magic?"

"I believe so," Samantha nodded. "Do you know if you've ever done any magic, even by accident?"

Harry told her about some of the weird things that had happened to him: his hair being cut and growing back in one night, the sweater shrinking, and somehow ending up on the roof of the school. "That sounds like accidental magic," Samantha nodded. "Well, I'm convinced."

"I'm not sure _I_ am," Harry said, still not understanding. "I mean, I can't _make_ anything happen when I want it to. It just — _happens_. I can't control it."

"That's not unusual," Samantha said. "You've been living with mortals for the past ten years, you haven't had any contact with other witches or warlocks. I expect your powers are very weak right now."

"So I have magic powers?" Harry asked. The idea was hard to grasp. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Samantha said. "Listen," she said urgently. "I don't want to leave you here tonight. We're going to pack your things and you're coming with me. Where do you keep your stuff?"

Wordlessly Harry pointed to the cupboard. "Oh my stars," Samantha shook her head. "Alright, then, let's get you something to put your stuff in." She made a gesture at the floor between them, and suddenly a suitcase appeared!

"Wow," Harry whispered, looking at the suitcase in awe. "How did you do that?!"

"Never mind that now," Samantha said quickly. "Let's get your stuff packed — here, I'll take care of it." She made a _come-here_ gesture toward the cupboard, and the things inside started _moving_.

His clothes and trinkets were flying through the air, landing in the suitcase as they folded and arranged themselves in neat, ordered stacks. Harry watched in amazement as the suitcase filled up in seconds, topped off with the sheets and blankets that comprised his bed folding into neat stacks on top of his clothes. Samantha then made a twitching motion with her nose and the suitcase folded itself shut. Glancing at the spilled water and sandwich on the floor, she twitched her nose at them as well. The glass, water and sandwich promptly disappeared.

"All set," she said, smiling at him as she stood again. Harry stood as well, looking at her and the suitcase, unable to speak. "Are you ready to go?" she asked.

"Are we really leaving?" Harry asked. He'd dreamed many times in the past that a long-lost relation would show up one day and take him away from this. Now that it was happening, it seemed too good to be true. "You're not tricking me?"

"I'm not tricking you," Samantha said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Once again, human contact that wasn't hurting him felt good. Samantha made a V with two fingers and put them on either side of her nose. "Witches' honor," she said.

Harry nodded; he couldn't think of anything to say. He was going to be free of the Dursleys! Finally, he spoke. "Thank you," he said, gratefully.

"You're welcome," Samantha smiled. "Now we should be on our way. I'll have to explain this to Darrin. He's my husband, by the way," she added, for Harry's benefit.

"What about my aunt and uncle?" Harry asked.

"Don't worry," Samantha told him. "I'll come back later and have a word with them." Under her breath she added. "And they are _not_ going to like what I have to say to them." Aloud, she said, "Hang on, Harry."

Harry looked around, wondering what he should hang on to, when Samantha made a flourish in the air with one hand and they abruptly vanished from Privet Drive. He would never set foot in the Dursley house again.

 **=ooo=**

It was Sunday morning, golf day, and Darrin Stephens had just put his clubs in the back of his new SUV when Samantha and a young boy with unruly black hair appeared in their garage. This, by itself, wasn't that unusual. Since he and Sam had retired to Florida after he'd sold his interest in McMann, Tate and Stephens to his son-in-law Michael, he'd become more relaxed about his "no-magic" rule. Especially since it was a lot simpler and easier for Sam to zap them up to Connecticut to visit their daughter Tabitha, their son Adam, and especially their granddaughter Electra, Tabitha's five-year-old daughter.

"Hi honey," Darrin said, giving his wife a peck on the cheek in greeting. He smiled at the boy with her. "Who's our little visitor?"

"Darrin, I'd like to introduce you to Harry Potter," Samantha said. "Harry, this is my husband, Darrin Stephens."

"Pleased to meet you, Harry," Darrin said, offering his hand. Harry took it and they shook hands. When the boy didn't say anything Darrin commented, "You're awfully quiet, Harry. Cat got your tongue?" He looked up at Sam. "Is he one of our neighbor's kids?"

Samantha's smile was a little nervous. "Not exactly," she said, carefully. She put her hands on Harry's shoulders. "He's a little shy, though."

In truth, Harry was scared speechless. He'd been in the hallway of Privet Drive only moments before, then felt something like a great wind blowing him along, and now he was _here_ , in a garage, with a woman he'd just met hours ago and a man he didn't know at all. He wasn't afraid of _them_ — he sensed the woman's compassion and good-naturedness, and he believed in some way they _were_ related, like she'd said. But everything else he'd learned tonight was just too strange, though he had to admit that magic would explain all the weird things that had happened to him over the years.

"I met him at the London Zoo yesterday," Sam went on, wincing a bit as Darrin's eyes widened upon hearing that.

"At the _zoo_?" Darrin's expression turned suspicious. "In _London_? So what's he doing _here_?"

"Well, Harry and I happened to meet when Electra and I were in the reptile house," Samantha explained. "She wanted to go there talk to the snakes —" Darrin's eyes bugged out again "a—and Harry heard us talking and he could understand what the snake was saying as well. Well, only witches and warlocks can understand what animals are saying, so I wanted to find out more about Harry, and I discovered that he was related to me. So I went back and —"

"Okay, okay, I can figure out the rest," Darrin interrupted her. "But that doesn't explain what he's doing _here_ , in Florida!"

Harry started. "I'm in Florida?" he asked, surprised. "That's in America, right?"

"It was the last time I checked," Darrin said stiffly, still giving Sam an expectant look. "So what's going on —?"

"I'll explain everything, sweetheart," she said quickly. "But first, let me get Harry something to eat. He hasn't had anything in a while." She quickly led Harry through the garage into their house and the kitchen. The eggs, bacon and toast she'd cooked for Darrin that morning were still on the kitchen table, though they had gone cold. "I can make you some more bacon and eggs," she said. "How would you like them?"

"Uh, fried, I guess," Harry said. But he was already eyeing the eggs on the table hungrily. "I can eat these," he said, pointing at them. "I don't mind if they're cold."

"No, I'll cook some hot and fresh for you," she insisted. "You don't have to eat cold food."

"It's okay," Harry said. "I eat cold food from the refrigerator all the time."

"Harry," Samantha said compassionately. "You don't have to eat cold food, you're not at your aunt and uncle's house now." She twitched her nose and the food disappeared from the table. Harry goggled seeing it vanish in front of his eyes. He looked so disappointed and hungry that Samantha's heart broke a little.

"I know it's been a while since you've eaten," she said softly. She glanced toward the door leading to the garage. "Don't tell Darrin about this, okay?" she asked. Harry looked back at the door, then nodded agreement.

She gestured toward the table and a plate of cooked eggs appeared in front of him, followed in short order by a plateful of bacon and sausage links, and a plate covered with slices of buttered toast. An empty plate appeared in front of him with a knife, fork and spoon set out next to it, and there were cold glasses of milk _and_ orange juice in front of him as well. Harry started to shake his head in disbelief, but in truth he was too hungry not to believe — he just wanted to tuck into that food! He looked up at Samantha for permission to eat.

"Dig in," Samantha said. "I'll be right back." She went back outside to where Darin stood next to his SUV, waiting impatiently for her return.

"Darrin," she said quietly, so Harry wouldn't hear. "I didn't want to say anything in front of Harry, but the people he was staying with — they were abusing him!"

"Abusing him?" Darrin began to look angry. "How?"

"They weren't feeding him properly," Sam said. "You saw how thin he was. And his aunt and uncle were making him sleep inside a cupboard! Can you believe that?!"

"What happened to his parents?" Darrin asked.

"They're gone," Samantha said. "He said they were killed in a car crash ten years ago." That wasn't the truth, but Darrin didn't need to hear right now that Harry's parents had been killed by some crazy wand-wizard named Voldemort.

Samantha had learned quite a bit about Harry's background in the time since she'd returned from the London Zoo with Electra. She'd traced Harry's parentage in the their family's Book of Ancestry, learning that the Potter family traced its roots back to another family, the Peverells, and from there back to the FitzStephans and to her father, Maurice, who'd married Marjory FitzStephan, a wand-witch, in the early 1100s and had a boy and a girl by her. Both children had been unable to use magic, either their kind or wand, and Maurice, in anger, had left Marjory, dissolving the marriage. But both children had inherited the ability for magic and in the girl's case, she married a Peverell and bore him several children, all witches and wizards. The boy grew to adulthood and had children of his own, carrying on the FitzStephan line, which eventually became the Stephens family name, as well as branching off into another line, the Evans. Samantha traced that line down to Harry's mother, Lily Evans, showing that she and Harry were related on both the Potter and Evans family sides. It was entirely possible that he was a distant cousin of Darrin's as well.

"Poor kid," Darrin said sympathetically. Then he realized what his wife might have in mind. "Samantha, you're not planning to have him stay _here_ , are you?"

" _Well_ ," Samantha said, in a whiny tone of voice. "Just for a little while, sweetheart, _please_ , until I can figure out something more permanent!"

"Well," Darrin sighed. "I suppose it's okay for a while. _If_ it's not permanent, Sam." He pecked her on the cheek. "Now, I'm off to my golf game. I've got a 10 a.m. tee time with Larry and his friends Bill and Ed."

"Oh, about that," Sam said quickly, before he could get into his SUV. "I just have one more _teensy little_ favor to ask," she said, cajolingly. She had something to take care of after he left and she didn't want to leave Harry alone.

"What's that?" Darrin asked, fearing the worst.

"Can you take him with you to your golf game?" Sam begged.

"Sam!"

"Please, Darrin? Please, please, _please_?"

Darrin sighed. "Alright, fine, he can come with."

Samantha leaned forward, kissing him on the mouth. "Thank you, honey! I'll go get him!" She ran into the house, then came back out a second later. "It'll be just a minute, sweetheart! He's almost done eating!"

Darrin rubbed his forehead in frustration, wondering how late he was going to be to his game. But it wasn't two minutes before Harry was buckled into the passenger seat of Darrin's brand-new Ford Explorer and the two of them were backing out of the garage, heading for the country club.

"Good," Samantha said to herself. Her expression hardened. "Now to go have a talk with _those_ _people_." With a sharp gesture of pent-up anger she vanished.

 **=ooo=**

Vernon and Petunia Dursley's bedroom was on the first floor of number four, Privet Drive, toward the front of the house. The largest bedroom upstairs, it had a mahogany four-poster bed, with a canopy and drapes for privacy, though they hadn't been used in years. There were two wardrobes — one for Vernon, one for Petunia, and a table where Petunia put on her makeup every morning before going out to chat with Mrs. Next Door, her neighbor, who always remarked how nice she looked. Someday Petunia would have to find out what her real name was.

It had been a long day at the zoo, and both of them had turned in after Vernon had caught the news that night, wincing as the incident at the zoo was reported. The newsman giving the report had interviewed the keeper of the reptile house, who'd described how the glass in the snake's cage had mysteriously disappeared. "If they only knew," Vernon had muttered, glad they'd left before anyone thought to talk to _them_! With his luck the ruddy Polkiss lad would have mentioned the Boy, and they'd have their foot in it for sure!

In bed, Vernon had given Petunia a perfunctory peck on the cheek, then rolled over and promptly fell asleep, snoring. Petunia put in her ear plugs so she could sleep without listening to her husband's snoring, then rolled over and fell asleep as well. Tomorrow would be a Sunday, and she would wake the Boy up and have him make them all breakfast. That and the work he did around the house was the only thing that made it worthwhile to keep him here anyway…

"Rise and shine," a woman's voice intruded upon Vernon's sleep, jarring him half-awake. "This is your wake-up call. Rise and shine!"

"Petunia," Vernon grunted. "What are you doing? It's the middle of the ruddy night! Petunia!" He rolled over to look at his wife. But she was still asleep, softly snoring.

"It's not her, it's me," the woman's voice said, and Vernon turned to look toward the foot of his bed, then came up out of the covers with a shout. A strange woman was standing in the middle of their bedroom!

"What the devil?!" Vernon shouted, reaching under his bed to pull out a cricket bat he had last used decades ago. He hefted it menacingly, threatening the woman who faced him with a cold, angry expression on her face. "Who the ruddy hell are YOU?" he shouted at her. "Get out of my house before I—"

"Settle down," the woman cut him off. "And put that bat away before you hurt yourself."

"I'm warning you —!"

"Very well," the woman said, snapping her fingers. The feel of the bat suddenly changed in Vernon's hands and he turned to look at it.

He was holding a bat, a _live bat_ , in his hands! "Yow!" Vernon shouted, dropping the bat, which began fluttering about the room. Petunia, finally stirred awake at his shouts, muttered, "What are you shouting about, Vernon?"

"P-Petunia," Vernon gasped hoarsely. "There's someone here!"

"I didn't hear the doorbell," Petunia complained, pushing herself to a sitting position. "Who is —" she finally saw the woman standing in front of them, and screamed.

The woman was dressed in a long, black robe that appeared almost amorphous in nature — she was not so much wearing it as she was surrounded by it. She looked young and pretty, with blond hair. Her expression, however, was not so pretty — she was glaring at both of them.

"You are Harry Potter's aunt and uncle, are you not?" she said to Vernon. "Your wife, Petunia Evans Dursley, is Lily Evans' sister, who married James Potter in 1978. They had Harry on July 31, 1980 and in 1981 they were killed on Halloween night in their home by someone calling himself 'Lord Voldemort.'" Sam had used the Book of Ancestry and articles in various papers from around Britain, including the inaptly named _Daily Prophet_ , which hadn't even printed anything about the couple's death until November 3, 1981, three days after the event. It had taken her an entire day to piece all this information together, until 8:30 Sunday morning back in West Palm Beach, Florida, where she knew Darrin would be getting reading for breakfast before heading off to his weekly golf game with Larry Tate and his buddies. She had popped home to make him a quick breakfast, then traveled back in time 12 hours, to two a.m. Sunday morning in Surrey, to talk to Harry about what she'd discovered. That was when she discovered how badly the Dursleys were treating him. She'd quickly gotten him out of there, leaving Harry with Darrin so she had come back once again and confront his aunt and uncle over the way they'd been abusing him. Did these people think she wasn't going to do something about _that_? "You _lied_ to Harry about how his parents died. They weren't killed in a car crash — they were murdered by a wizard named Lord Voldemort!"

"So?" Vernon blustered, trying not to appear afraid. In truth he was very, very afraid. He'd been worried, all these years, that _they_ would someday track the Boy to their home. "If it's the Boy you want, take him and leave!"

"I already have," the woman said. "He's safe, now — you'll never be able to abuse him again!"

" _Abuse_ him?" Vernon growled. "We did the Boy a favor, letting him live here with us, if you ask me!"

"Vernon," Petunia said warningly.

" _Quiet_ , Petunia!" Vernon snapped at her. "It's about time I told these people off!" He jabbed a beefy finger toward the blonde intruder. "Ever since you left him on our doorstep ten years ago, we've kept him in our house, looked after him, fed him and clothed him, sent him to school, and what thanks did we get for doing all that? None! If you lot hadn't abandoned him all those years ago he wouldn't be where he is today! Instead of coming in here and frightening us— er, _my wife_ , you ought to be _thanking_ us for everything we did for him!"

"Vernon," Petunia whispered desperately. "She's not the one who left Harry here. Professor Dumbledore did that."

"Well, how am I supposed to know that, Petunia!" Vernon exploded. "She didn't introduce herself when she invaded our ruddy bedroom!"

"Sorry about that," the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. "My name is Samantha Stephens. Harry is a distant cousin of mine, so I'll be taking responsibility for him from now on."

"Well it's about damn time!" Vernon snapped brusquely. He waved his hand in dismissal. "Now that you've got the Boy, you can just clear out of here!"

But Samantha didn't move. "I have a few more things to ask you before I go," she said, curtly. "What's Professor Dumbledore got to do with Harry being here?"

"Albus Dumbledore," Petunia said timidly, "is the Headmaster of the school my sister Lily went to when she was little. He left the boy on our doorstep. We found him there the next morning. Hold on." Petunia slipped out of bed, going over to her wardrobe. She reached inside and took out a small box, bringing it back to her bed. Taking off a necklace that held a single small key, she opened the box and took out a parchment envelope. Holding it as far from herself as she could, she offered it to Samantha, who held out her hand. The envelope suddenly left Petunia's hand, who jerked back like the envelope had burned her. Vernon and Petunia watched in horror as the envelope floated into Samantha's hand. Samantha read the words written on the front:

 **Mrs. Petunia Evans Dursley**  
 **The Largest Bedroom**  
 **4 Privet Drive**  
 **Little Whinging**  
 **Surrey**

"This is from Professor Dumbledore to you, I presume?" Samantha asked, looking at Petunia. Petunia nodded, so frightened she couldn't speak.

"I thought I told you to burn that letter!" Vernon demanded, but neither woman paid him any attention. Samantha took a letter out of the envelope and began reading.

* * *

 _November 1, 1981_

 _My Dearest Petunia,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. The last time we corresponded were under less than pleasant circumstances — I hope you have forgiven me for being unable to allow you to attend Hogwarts with your sister Lily. It is unfortunate that you did not inherit the same inclinations toward magic that she did._

 _I am afraid that I have graver news still ahead. Your sister and her husband James have met with a tragic fate — I am sorry to have tell you that they have passed on, the victims of a madman who calls himself Lord Voldemort. I offer you my sincerest condolences for your loss. To this I can add only a few glimmers of good news: their murderer has himself been vanquished, and he has fled Britain, his powers destroyed, perhaps forever._

 _Another happy fact I am able to impart to you, as you may have already guessed. James and Lily's son Harry is alive and well, and no doubt you have found him nestled amongst the blankets in the basket where this letter was placed. No one on James' side of the family still lives — you are his only relatives. I ask that you take young Harry into your home and care for him as if he were your own son, just as your sister Lily would have done were you and your husband to meet an untimely fate._

 _I do have another reason for doing this, Petunia, which makes it important that you accept Harry into your home. Lord Voldemort still has followers in Britain, and those followers would seek out young Harry in order to wreak terrible vengeance on him, if they could but find him. When your sister died, she placed a spell on Harry that would prevent her murderer from harming him. As her sister, I have extended that protection to include your blood as well. As long as Harry can call your house his home, as long as you give him bed and board, that protection will remain in place, shielding him from his enemies. I request that you do this in memory of your sister._

 _When the time is ripe someone will come to bring Harry back to the Wizarding world and to the people who will have idolized him from afar for many years. But a child such as Harry needs a proper upbringing, not the adulation of a nation — the third reason I have left him in your care._

 _If you should find yourself in need of contacting me, please let your neighbor Mrs. Figg know that you wish to speak to me, and I shall visit you as soon as I am able. Until then, I remain,_

 _Your servant,_

 _Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

* * *

Samantha looked up after finishing the letter. "This letter is dated November first. Are you saying Dumbledore left Harry overnight on your doorstep in November? The temperature must have been freezing! What was he thinking?"

"That's what I said!" Vernon said roughly. "What idiot would leave a child on a doorstep overnight on such a cold night?!"

"What idiot would refuse food to a small boy and make him sleep in a cupboard at night?" Samantha shot back. Vernon glared at her but didn't say anything.

"That's all we know," Petunia said in a tiny voice. "We've been taking care of the boy ever since. It hasn't been easy—he's constantly causing trouble, strange things keep happening around him."

"It's his magic," Samantha said matter-of-factly. "If he's not trained how to use it properly, it can occur accidentally, causing unusual things to happen, such as when you cut all his hair off and it grew back overnight, or when his cousin was chasing him to beat him up, and he popped onto the roof of the school."

Petunia grimaced. "What else do you want from us?"

"Nothing else," Samantha said, coldly. "Except — what are you going to do when the authorities begin to wonder what's happened to Harry?"

Vernon shook his head, not understanding, but Petunia took her meaning at once. "What — what are you saying?" she asked, warily. " _You've_ got him now. You said so yourself."

"But nobody else knows that, do they?" Samantha smirked.

"We know who you are!" Vernon blustered. "Samantha Stephens. Do you think we won't tell the authorities that you've taken the boy?"

"You can tell them whatever you like," Samantha retorted. "And I'm sure they will try to find Samantha Stephens. Oh, they might locate a few — Stephens is a common name here in England — but none of them will have a boy named Harry Potter with them. And he obviously won't be here with _you_. What do you think they'll do after that?"

Petunia paled. Vernon finally got it — his beefy face also went white. "You have to straighten this out," he demanded. "They — the authorities — they'll think we did something to the Boy!"

"Now you're catching on," Samantha said, with a wicked smile. "In fact, I've already informed your police department — there was an anonymous tip phoned in just before I got here that you were keeping him locked in a cupboard beneath the stairs."

Both Vernon and Petunia's jaws dropped. "You didn't!" Petunia whispered.

"Oh yes I did," Samantha nodded, still smiling. "Good luck explaining where he is when they get here." She looked thoughtful for a few seconds. "Well, I'll tell you what — to be fair, when I talk to Harry after this I'll ask him if he wants me to get you out of this mess or not. Whatever he says, I'll take care of it for him. I'll be back in touch — maybe. Ta-ta."

Samantha twitched her nose and vanished in a burst of white light and a great puff of smoke that quickly filled the room. Both coughing, Vernon and Petunia looked at one another. "Do you think the Boy will help us?" Petunia asked her husband.

"After the way we've treated him?" Vernon said to her. "Petunia, we are well and truly effed." Petunia could only nod her head in sad agreement. _Curse the boy_! she thought viciously. Even now that they were rid of him he was still messing up their lives!

=ooo=

 **A/N: I enjoyed reading Clell65619's story "Harry Potter and the Elder Sect," though it got a bit silly at times with the song references and such. The fanfic is another Harry Potter / Bewitched crossover and is a fun read, although some of the Bewitched characters are darker than in TV canon. There are some interesting relationships between some Bewitched characters and the Hogwarts founders. It moves the timeline of Bewitched forward from the 1960s to the 1980s, so that young Harry can join the Stephens family (spelled "Stevens" in the fanfic) to where he and Tabitha are about the same age. In one chapter Tabitha implies she's older than Harry so I assume he joined them when she was around two years old and he had been brought from Godric's Hollow when he was about 15 months old.**

 **This story begins a few month or so before Harry learns he is a wizard on his 11** **th** **birthday, and takes an alternate path as he's introduced to Samantha and Darrin Stephens. The story is a "prequel" of sorts to my story "The Witch-Bang Theory" — in that fanfic I called the place of witches and warlocks the Eternal Realm; hence the title of this story. Just as Penny discovered in Witch-Bang she was the granddaughter of Maurice, Samantha's father, Harry is descended from his issue with a wand witch from the 11** **th** **century. More on this in subsequent chapters. Technically a crossover, I'm placing this story in the category of Harry Potter for more visibility. When it's complete I will change it to a Bewitched / Harry Potter crossover.**

 **For now, I hope you enjoy the story as it unfolds! Please review and share your thoughts on the story, I enjoy reading them and will take cues from reviews that have ideas on where the story may go.**

 **John**

 **A/N #2: In case you think I messed up the time zones, I know that the U.S. Eastern Time zone is five hours behind Greenwich Mean Time in Britain. That is, when it's noon in Britain it's 7 am in Florida or New York. When Samantha and Electra went to the London Zoo on June 23 (a Saturday), they left around 8 a.m. and arrived in London about 1 p.m., about the time Harry and the Dursleys finished lunch and went to the reptile house. After Sam met Harry, she brought Electra home and went to work researching Harry's background in the Book of Ancestry, then went looking for information in various places, finally finding what happened to Harry in a November 3, 1981 issue of the** _ **Daily Prophet**_ **.**

 **By the time she had this figured out it was early Sunday morning and time to make Darrin breakfast before he went golfing, so she cooked him eggs, bacon and sausage. Then, knowing it was in the afternoon in Britain, she popped over there but also went 12 hours into the past, to around 3 a.m. Sunday morning, so she could talk to Harry without the Dursleys finding out she was there. I mention that in the story above (in the paragraph where Samantha is telling Vernon what she knows about them) but I hope I've made it clearer here.**

 **A/N #3: Thanks for the reviews I've received! The meeting between Sam and Dumbledore is bound to be epic!**


	2. Little Lost Wizard

.

 **Chapter Two**

 **Little Lost Wizard**

 _Updated_ 6/26/2015  
 _Last Updated 8/21/2015_

 **=ooo=**

Professor Albus Dumbledore sat at the Headmaster's desk in his tower at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, patiently scratching out the seemingly never-ending piles of paperwork his many duties in the Wizarding world presented to him. The holidays had just begun, but it would not be long before the halls of Hogwarts were once again teeming with bright young heads newly-emptied of knowledge and ready to be filled once again with spells and potions, herbs and formulas, runes and Quidditch standings—

Dumbledore paused, remembering the final game of the year between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Once again Professor Snape's house had handily won the match, taking both the Quidditch Cup and the House Cup for the year. It was quite the sore point with Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House and Slytherin's most bitter rival. Minerva had taken the loss well, Dumbledore reflected — better than the Captain of the Gryffindor team, Oliver Wood had. The poor boy had been almost inconsolable after the game. Not surprising, perhaps, given that the final score was Gryffindor 80, Slytherin 340. But it was Oliver's first year as Captain, Minerva had pointed out — he had three more years to make something of the team before leaving school.

Dumbledore paused in his work as he felt the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office step aside to allow someone entrance, and heard the motion of the stone staircase as it brought them to his door. Ah, this would be Minerva herself, probably delivering the morning owl posts. More work, of course, Dumbledore knew. But such was the lot he had chosen. The joy of bringing the gift of knowledge to young minds must be contrasted with the tedium of the day-to-day duties of an administrator. The sound of moving stone stopped, replaced with three soft raps on the great oaken doors.

"Come in, Minerva," Dumbledore called, and the doors opened to allow her entrance. McGonagall entered, a handful of envelopes and scrolls in her hand. She walked briskly over to the Headmaster's desk.

"Good morning, Albus," she said in a crisp tone. "I have your morning owls."

"Thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore said, as she placed the stacks and rolls of parchment in an empty basket on one corner of the desk. "Is there anything from Cornelius today?" he asked, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Of course there is," Minerva answered irritably. "That man is as predictable as a clock." It was a joke between them; since the new Minister had assumed office he had been pestering Dumbledore with daily owls asking for his advice on dealing with the various political issues and squabbles that came up constantly within the Ministry. As if the Headmaster of Hogwarts and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot didn't already have far too much to deal with already, he now had to nursemaid a neophyte Minister of Magic! "You know it would have been simpler if you had just taken the job yourself."

"Perhaps, Minerva," Dumbledore smiled. "But I'm a bit too old these days to navigate the labyrinth of Ministry politics." He glanced at the stack of envelopes and scrolls she had just placed on his desk. "Anything interesting in there this morning?"

Minerva shook her head. "Not really, it's the usual stuff." She folded her arms across her chest. "I've received my share of posts today as well — mostly about next year's schedule."

"Yes," Albus nodded thoughtfully. "It won't be long before the letters go out to students for this year. The years fly by so fast these days."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Albus," Minerva smiled. "Those letters won't go out until the last week of July."

Dumbledore allowed himself a small sigh. "Yes, you are right, my dear. At my age the days and weeks do tend to blur somewhat."

Minerva smiled sympathetically, then a frown creased her features. "Oh, that reminds me — I did see an owl in here I thought you should look at." She dug into the pile of envelopes and pulled one out, handing it to the Headmaster. "It's from Arabella Figg."

"Indeed?" Dumbledore took the envelope, regarding it with interest.  
"Her weekly reports normally arrive on Saturday. I wonder what prompted her to write again so soon?" Dumbledore ran a long finger over the wax seal on the envelope, causing it to vanish. He took a sheet of parchment from the envelope and began to read,

* * *

 _24 June 1991_

 _Professor Dumbledore,_

 _I've got Mr. Tibbles doing daily patrols of the subject house, and this morning he let me know something strange was going on over there. I walked over to see for myself and the place is surrounded by Muggle police cars! I talked with the neighbors and found out the subject is no longer in the house. The aunt and uncle are claiming he has gone to visit a relative but they cannot or will not provide information about whoever has him. The police are beginning to suspect foul play. I decided this could not wait for the regular weekly report._

 _I tried to get this to you sooner but Mundungus Fletcher is useless as a messenger! The man is never around when I need him! Fortunately, Emmeline stopped by to see how I was doing and I got her to owl this to you._

 _Arabella Figg_

* * *

"That's where you placed young Harry Potter, isn't it?" Minerva asked, when Dumbledore finished reading the letter aloud. She looked at Dumbledore, concerned. "Do you think something has happened to him?"

Dumbledore's face was lined with concern as well. "Arabella's reports for the past ten years have been nothing but routine. Harry has been living a normal life as a Muggle boy — all of her previous reports say he's mild-mannered and well-behaved, although according to Arabella he shows little interest in hearing about her cats," he added, a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

"Who could this 'relative' his aunt and uncle claimed took him be, then?" Minerva asked. "I thought all of James's relatives were gone."

"There is of course one other person," Dumbledore pointed out. "But as we have not heard of a breakout from Azkaban I assume it cannot be him."

"I should hope not!" Minerva gasped. "What could a man like that possibly want with the boy _now_ , but to do him harm?!"

"Agreed," Dumbledore murmured. He looked up at McGonagall. "I shall have someone look take a discrete look into the matter."

McGonagall regarded him with some surprise. "Not _you_ , Albus? I didn't think you would entrust a job like that to anyone else."

Dumbledore smiled, almost blushing from his Deputy's praise. "Never fear, Minerva, the person I intend for this investigation is well-equipped to sort out young Harry's location and return him to his Muggle guardians."

"Ah," McGonagall said, knowingly. "Mad-Eye, then."

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. "I've no doubt he will locate the boy straightaway."

"I'll leave you to it, then." McGonagall nodded a final time and left the Headmaster's office, returning to her own duties.

After she had gone, Dumbledore sat back in his chair, pondering the situation in more detail. Whatever had happened to young Harry, it was unlikely that the blood protection had failed and Voldemort's followers had taken him — Dumbledore would have felt the magic he had placed on Harry and his aunt fail if that had occurred.

That seemed to leave only Muggles as possible perpetrators of this — well, kidnapping was the only applicable word for it. If that was the case, Moody should be able to solve it in short order. It was strange, however, that whoever had taken Harry had not chosen his aunt and uncle's son instead of his cousin. Well, he would leave that for Alastor to sort out.

The Headmaster considered sending his Patronus to alert Moody he wished to speak to him, but this should be kept as private as possible. He took out a piece of parchment and began writing a short note, one that could only be read by a member of the Order. This matter should be dealt with as quickly and quietly as possible.

 **=ooo=**

Monday morning in the Stephens household began as it always did, with breakfast. This morning, however, there was a new face at the breakfast table.

Harry padded into the kitchen rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He'd awakened that morning to find that his torn T-shirt, baggy old jeans, and tattered socks and trainers had been replaced with new clothes that fit him perfectly. Putting them on, he went to the kitchen wondering what was going to happen to him today. Getting out of the Dursleys' house the day before had been like a dream come true. He wondered how long his good luck would hold out.

"Good morning, Harry! How would you like your eggs this morning?" Samantha, the woman who had rescued him yesterday, asked as he came into the kitchen.

"Fried, please," Harry said, sitting down at the table opposite Samantha's husband Darrin, who smiled at him over the morning paper. "Thank you for the new clothes," he added.

"You're very welcome," Samantha said, cracking eggs into a hot skillet. "They look good on you."

"How's it going this morning, sport?" Darrin asked. "Did you get a good night's sleep?" Samantha placed a glass of milk in front of Harry and he nodded his thanks as he took a sip.

"Very well, sir," he said. "It was a little weird, though."

"How so?" Darrin asked, curious.

"Well," Harry replied, "I guess I, um, never slept in a bed before."

"Really?" Darrin turned to Samantha, who was cooking Harry's eggs at the stove, with a shocked look in his eyes. "You've _never_ slept in a bed before? _Ever_?"

"Not that I remember," Harry shook his head. "It was really comfortable, though."

"Beds usually are," Samantha said, smiling. Inside her heart was breaking as she imagined what Harry had gone through in that awful house, but she didn't want him seeing her upset. She placed three eggs from the skillet onto Harry's plate, then set out another plate with strips of bacon on it. "Would you like some toast, Harry?"

"Yes, please," Harry said. The toaster popped up a moment later, and Sam placed the slices on a small plate and set it in front of Harry. He was looking at the plates of eggs and bacon and toast with obvious hunger but wasn't eating.

"Harry," Samantha said gently. "You don't have to wait for my permission to eat. Go on, dig in."

"Thank you, ma'am," Harry took some bacon and put it on his plate, then took a slice of toast and buttered it. Samantha sat down with two eggs on her own plate and took a piece of toast for herself. For a few minutes there was only the sound of eating and drinking as the three consumed their meals.

Last night before they'd gone to bed, Samantha had told Darrin about her visit to Harry's aunt and uncle's house over in England. She'd described them as rude, obnoxious and unrepentant over the way they had treated Harry, and she'd informed them of the problems they were going to have explaining what had happened to him since she'd told the police they were mistreating him. Darrin didn't have any sympathy for them, either, but she still had to tell Harry what was going on with them. His reaction would be crucial for Sam to decide what she would do about them.

"Sweetheart," Samantha said to Harry, who was busily consuming his eggs and bacon. He didn't look up. "Harry," she said a moment later, and he glanced up at her, eyes wide with his mouth full of food.

He hastily swallowed. "Sorry," he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I — I thought you were talking to Mr. Stephens."

"It's all right, dear," Samantha told him. "I want to talk to you about something."

Harry froze. "You're not going to send me back, are you?" he asked, his voice quivering.

"No, no," Samantha said quickly. "Nothing like that! No, you'll never have to live with those people again if you don't want to."

Harry nodded, looking vastly relieved. He put down his fork and sat up straighter, to show he was paying attention.

"I thought you should know," Samantha began. "Your aunt and uncle are in a bit of trouble over you."

"Why?" Harry asked.

"The police want to know what happened to you," Samantha said. "I told them that your aunt and uncle had been keeping you locked in a cupboard."

Harry's eyes grew large upon hearing that. "Are they in trouble?" he asked.

"Yes," Samantha nodded. "It could be very serious trouble if the police can't locate you to make sure you're safe."

Harry didn't say anything for some time. He appeared to be thinking. "If they find out where I am," he asked slowly. "Will I have to go back to live with them?" The idea appeared to fill the boy with dread, Samantha thought.

"No," Samantha said firmly. "I can make it so the police will be satisfied you're okay and safe." She glanced at Darrin. "Assuming that's okay with you, sweetheart."

"No problem here, honey," Darrin said, agreeing.

"Good," Samantha said. "They've been dealing with the police for the past day or so; I think they've learned their lesson by now."

"Probably not," Harry said, honestly. "But I guess I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to them. They've got to take care of Dudley, after all."

"Oh, yes," Samantha nodded, remembering. "They have a son, too. I'd forgotten about him until now." She reached over and rubbed Harry's arm tenderly. "I'm glad one of us was thinking about him," she said.

"It's kind of hard to forget about Dudley," Harry said. "There's so much of him to remember." Samantha giggled, and Darrin hid his smile behind his paper.

"Well, well," a disembodied voice suddenly filled the kitchen. "I leave you two alone for the weekend and look what you have to show for it."

"Great, just great," Darrin muttered with an annoyed grunt.

"Who is that?" Harry asked, looking around the room trying to figure out who was speaking. Samantha looked up at the ceiling. "Mother," she said in a irritable tone. "You're frightening Harry. Why don't you show yourself?"

A red-headed woman suddenly appeared in the empty chair at the table, making Harry flinch away in surprise. He stared at her in shock — this time someone had actually appeared in front of him out of thin air!

The woman was giving Harry an appraising look. "He's the spitting image of you, Derwood," she said to Darrin. "A long-lost cousin, perhaps?"

"Hello to you, too, Endora," Darrin said, though his tone was anything but welcoming. "Back in town for your hundred-thousand-mile broom check-up?"

"Very amusing, dear boy," Endora sniffed. "But you haven't introduced me to your little friend here."

"Mother, this is Harry Potter," Samantha introduced them. "Harry, this is my mother, Endora."

"How do you do, ma'am?" Harry said politely. He wasn't sure if he should offer his hand to her like Darrin had done when they met. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Why thank you, Harry," Endora said pleasantly. She put out her hand and Harry took it. "Interesting," Endora said when they finished shaking. "Samantha, may I have a word with you in the living room?"

"Of course," Samantha said, standing. "Harry, if you want some more eggs Darrin will be happy to cook them for you."

"I will?" Darrin said, looking up from his paper. Samantha gave him a _Yes-you-will_ look. "Of course I will!" he promptly agreed, smiling at Harry. Samantha stood and followed Endora into the living room.

Endora made sure they were well away from the kitchen door before she spoke. "There is something familiar about that boy," she told Samantha. "Were did you find him?"

"Electra and I were at the London Zoo when we met him," Samantha replied. "Did you notice his eyes, Mother?"

"Of course," Endora nodded. "The exact color as yours. That cannot be a coincidence."

"It's not," Samantha said definitely. "I traced him in the Book of Ancestry back to the FitzStephan line."

"Oh." Endora's voice went cold. " _That_ trollop."

" _Mother_!" Samantha hissed, scandalized by her mother's language. "That's no way to speak about Daddy's first wife!"

"Hah!" Endora snorted. "'Wife' my eye! All that woman wanted was three meals a day and a bed where she didn't have to be on her back all night long!"

"Will you keep your voice down?!" Samantha demanded. "Whatever you think of Marjory FitzStephan, Mother, that little boy in there is descended from her and my father, and that makes him a part of our family!"

"Oh, all right!" Endora folded her arms, looking chagrined. "What do you plan to do with him?"

"I don't know, yet," Samantha admitted. "I was thinking he could live with us for now, but I don't think Darrin is ready for the patter of little feet around the house again."

"Hardly 'little feet,' Samantha," Endora said. "The boy must be eight or nine years old, judging from his size."

"He's almost 11," Samantha said. "His aunt and uncle weren't feeding him properly."  
"Really." Endora's blue eyes turned ice-cold. "I hope you taught them a proper lesson in childcare, Samantha. Or perhaps _I_ should pay them a visit."

"I've taken care of it, Mother," Samantha said quickly. "In fact they're in the middle of explaining to the British police why they kept Harry locked in a cupboard every night."

"The boy's magic is very weak," Endora noted. "I could barely feel it when I shook hands with him. Perhaps you should have Dr. Bombay take a look at him."

"That's a good idea," Samantha agreed. "Will you call him while I go get Harry?"

Samantha went back into the kitchen, finding Darrin and Harry standing at the sink washing the breakfast dishes, with Darrin washing and Harry drying. "Well!" she said brightly, seeing them. "I see you've both decided to pitch in and do your part to help around here!" she teased.

"Yeah!" Harry grinned. "I did the dishes all the time at the Dursleys," he said. "Aunt Petunia usually had me wash them two or three times before she was satisfied."

Darrin and Samantha exchanged a look over Harry's head. "Well, for now," Samantha said to Harry. "Darrin's going to have go it alone, Harry. I need you in the living room with me."

"What's up, Sam?" Darrin asked. His tone was casual but he'd learned to read his wife pretty well over the years, and she was worried about something.

"Oh, nothing," Samantha demurred. "I just want Harry to get a check-up, make sure everything's okay."

"A check-up?" Harry looked confused. The Dursleys had never taken him to a doctor once in his life. The only reason he had glasses was because his primary school teacher had noticed he had trouble learning his alphabet in his first year in school. "Is something wrong with me?" he asked, starting to become scared.

"Oh, I don't think so," Samantha said confidently, putting an arm across his shoulders. "I just want to be sure. It won't take long, and the doctor should be here any minute." She turned back to Darrin. "I'll try to have him back in time to help you finish with the dishes."

"Oh, don't worry about poor little me," Darrin said. "I'm sure I can muddle through on my own."

Samantha smiled and steered Harry back toward the living room. What he saw there made him stop and stare in open astonishment. Standing next to Samantha's mother Endora was a tall, mustachioed man in a full tuxedo with a white tie, holding a small black bag. "Ah! There's the lad," the man said, in a pronounced British accent. "Come right over here, my boy, and let's have a look at you."

Harry looked uncertainly toward Samantha. "It's alright," she said softly. "This is Dr. Bombay, our family witch doctor."

Harry walked over slowly, with Samantha right behind him. "There you go," the doctor said. "There's a good lad. Let's get you up on the table."

Harry looked around. "What table?" he asked. The dining room table was over in the next room.

Dr. Bombay looked around as well. "Ah, right you are, my boy. Well, we can fix that." With a snap of his fingers a doctor's examination table appeared out of thin air. Bombay reached down and pulled out a step so Harry could get up on the table.

The doctor set his black bag down next to Harry, then opened it and took out a tuning fork. "Alright, now, let's have a look at you," he said briskly, striking the fork on the edge of the table and holding it against Harry's right knee. After a moment he glanced up at Samantha in alarm.

"My word, woman!" he exclaimed. "This boy is almost completely out of magic! Where have you been keeping him, under a rock somewhere?!"

"He's been staying with mortal relatives," Samantha quickly explained.

"Didn't they realize he needs to practice his magic regularly to keep it up?" Bombay demanded. "And on top of that he's undernourished as well!" The doctor _tsked_ disapprovingly. "Fortunately I have some pills that will have him right as rain in a few days." He handed Samantha a small bottle. "See that he takes one of these each day for a week and eats healthily from now on."

Bombay put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Be sure and do as Samantha tells you, lad." Harry nodded and Bombay gave him a reassuring smile. He clicked his bag closed and turned to Samantha with an appraising look. "And how are you doing, my dear? Keeping yourself fit as well?"

"Yes, Doctor," Samantha assured him. "Don't worry, I won't let my magic weaken, either."

"Glad to hear it! Pip pip!" Bombay gave a cheery wave and vanished, leaving Harry sitting on the examination table, his head spinning over what had just happened.

Bombay reappeared a moment later. "Forgot my table," he said, sheepishly. "Jump down, there's a good lad." Harry jumped off the table and it and the doctor vanished.

"Well, you heard the man," Samantha told Harry. "Let's get you a glass of water so you can start taking these pills."

"Okay," Harry said. But as Samantha turned toward the kitchen he asked. "Then what?"

Samantha looked back at him. "What do you mean?"

Harry pointed at the bottle in her hand. "Is that going to make my magic better?" he asked.

Samantha smiled. "I hope so," she said.

"But I've never done magic before," Harry said. "At least, not on purpose. I don't know how to do anything."

"Oh, I suppose you're right." Samantha pondered that problem for a moment. Both Tabitha and Adam had been able to perform magic as very small children — by the time they were Harry's age they had most of the innate abilities of witches and warlocks, and were able to perform simple spells fairly well.

"I have an idea," Endora spoke up. "Why don't _I_ teach the boy? That is," she added with a glare toward the kitchen, "if Derwood has no objection."

"I'm sure _Darrin_ won't mind," Samantha said, throwing a glanced toward the kitchen as well. "As long as you don't teach Harry to blow up the house or anything."

"Of course not," Endora said, a cheerful (and somewhat mischievous) grin spreading across her face. "Darwin won't even know we're here." She put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Harry, would you like Auntie Endora to teach you magic?" she asked in a gentle, kindly voice that somehow invoked a feeling of dread in the back of Samantha's mind.

"Yes, ma'am," Harry nodded. Learning magic? Wow! Only a couple of days ago he'd been watching his cousin Dudley unwrap over three dozen gifts for his birthday, thinking his aunt and uncle would barely even acknowledge his existence on _his_ _own_ birthday a month later! Now he was out of their house, out of their lives, and he was about to learn things he could only dimly comprehend right now.

Things were definitely looking up!

 **=ooo=**

 _July 1, a week later—_

The flames of the Headmaster's fireplace flared a brilliant green, rising and swirling into a man-sized shape that disgorged itself into his office, resolving from green flames into a gray-clad man with wand drawn and covering the room even as he stopped spinning except for the electric-blue eye in his right eye socket, which continued to whirl about even as his left eye settled on Dumbledore in his Headmaster's chair.

"Welcome, Alastor," Dumbledore said in quiet greeting.

The man offered a curt nod of recognition. "Are we alone?" His voice was taut and grizzled. Dumbledore nodded once in reply.

"You don't mind if I check for myself, do you?" Moody growled.

"I would not presume to stop you, Alastor," Dumbledore replied, and the leather-clad Auror cast a half-dozen spells into the air of the Headmaster's office. After the last spell he remained stock-still for several seconds, then nodded to himself, apparently satisfied. Stepping next to Dumbledore's desk, Moody pointed his wand at a nearby chair, which slid over beneath him so he could sit, which he did with a grunt. "Are you comfortable?" Dumbledore asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I trust your proverbial caution has been satisfied." Moody was cautious well beyond the point of paranoia, which the Headmaster had pointed out to him many times in the past.

"It ain't paranoia if they're really out to get you," Moody growled in reply.

"This office is one of the most secure places in the world," Dumbledore commented mildly.

"So _you_ say," Moody retorted. "You rely entirely too much on the old wards of this castle, and too little on maintaining constant vigilance."

Dumbledore gave an indulgent nod. He was well-acquainted with the phrase; hardly a day passed where Moody didn't admonish someone for the smallest slip in alertness.

"I would offer you something to drink," Dumbledore said conversationally. "But we both know you would refuse. So you will excuse me if I fix myself a cup of tea." The Headmaster took out his wand and waved it over his desk. A tea service appeared with a pot of steaming hot water, a tea cup with a strainer filled with leaves, and containers of milk, lemon and sugar. With another flick of Dumbledore's wand the pot lifted into the air, pouring hot water through the strainer until leaves inside it were covered. Dumbledore picked up a pestle and tamped the leaves down in the strainer, then removed it from the cup and added some milk and sugar to the cup.

Moody watched this ritual with growing impatience. "You want to hear what I've got for you or not?" he growled as Dumbledore finally took a sip of his tea and smiled contentedly.

"Of course." The Headmaster gestured for Moody to go ahead.

Moody reached into his leather armor and withdrew a dossier from a hidden pocket. "Alright, first some background information on the family you had the Potter kid staying with.

"The father, Vernon Dursley, works as a director at a company called Grunnings. Main offices in London. Dursley's been with the company since 1976, the year he graduated from University College in London with degrees in accountancy and business administration. In 1977 he met and married Petunia Evans, a woman who was working as an office temp at his company."

"Yes, Lily's older sister," Albus said. "She once wrote a letter to me asking to be allowed to attend Hogwarts. It was rather difficult to reply telling her that it could never be allowed because she wasn't a witch. In Petunia's mind her parents loved her sister Lily more than her, because of her magic."

Moody went back to the dossier. "Their son Dudley was born on June 23, 1980. He attended St. Grogory's Primary school; this fall he's going to a private school called Smeltings, the same secondary school his father Vernon attended." He flipped the dossier closed, then turned his gaze on Dumbledore. "By the time I arrived in Surrey a week ago the Muggle police had cleared the Dursleys of any wrongdoing in connection with the disappearance of Harry Potter." He paused to let that fact sink in.

"That seems odd," Albus remarked. "Did the police find Harry?"

Moody shook his head sharply, his gray hair flying about. "No, they just stopped looking. It's the damnedest thing, Albus, but hang me if _not one_ Muggle policeman actually knew what became of the boy. I questioned several of them _very_ closely before I gave up on that tack."

He flipped open the dossier to another page. "So I went straight to the hippogriff's beak, so to speak. I talked to the Dursleys themselves.

"I borrowed a bit of Mrs. Figg and Polyjuiced myself to look at her, then went over to have a chat with the wife, Petunia. I questioned her for about an hour, until the Polyjuice wore off, then I Obliviated her and Disillusioned myself to wait until Dursley came home from work and questioned him as well." He took two sheets of parchment out of the dossier and handed them to Dumbledore. "Put a charm on each of them to draw a picture of the woman they say took Potter away. Dursley is a fair artist, if I do say so."

The drawings were simple but concise: they showed a pretty blonde woman who might be in her thirties or forties. "She told 'em her name was Samantha Stephens," Moody went on. "Not sure why she told them her real name."

"Yes," Dumbledore murmured. "It would be easy for the Muggle police to trace her, if that is her actual name."

"Right," Moody agreed. "But she also told them they wouldn't find anyone with that name in Britain holding a boy named Harry Potter. And she was right.

There's no one in England, Scotland, Ireland _or_ Wales with the name Samantha Stephens, of any spelling, that matches the woman in those pictures. So that's a dead end."

"Did you check outside Britain?" Dumbledore asked.

"I'm getting to that," Moody said. "The Dursleys described this woman as appearing in their bedroom in the middle of the night. When Petunia Dursley offered her the letter you left with Potter on the night you dropped him off there, she said it floated out of her hand over to the woman."

"A witch," Dumbledore surmised.

"Probably," Moody agreed. "Neither Dursley saw a wand, but she didn't perform any magic that needed a wand in front of them except when she Disapparated, which they said filled their room with smoke. Course, even a Muggle illusionist can perform a trick like that. But I think it's safe to assume she was a witch, not a Muggle.

"With that in mind, I broadened the scope of the search using some resources we have over on 10 Downing Street. I had MI5 run a search for families named 'Stephens,' again any spelling, in the European communities." Moody made a face (which, all things considered, was rather grotesque). "I still came up empty."

Dumbledore looked intrigued now. "This is shaping up to be quite a mystery!" he said with a bemused smile.

"Yeah," Moody agreed. "Have I told you how much I _hate_ mysteries? Anyway, that didn't leave me much choice but to look to the Americas. The woman had an American accent, according to the Dursleys, so I had Amelia Bones reach out to the Department of Magic in the United States, to search their records for the name 'Samantha Stephens.'" Moody's normal eye locked on Dumbledore's. "What d'you think I found?"

"Based on the unhappy glare you're giving me, Alastor," Albus said mildly. "I would say, nothing."

"Right in one," Moody snarled. "No witch that resembles the woman in these pictures is registered in any state or possession of the United States!

"So what was there left for me to do?" Moody grumbled. "Nothing! Squat! I'll tell you, Albus, I was pretty damned frustrated. It had taken me six days to get exactly nowhere. I was ready to chuck the entire mess back in your lap."

Dumbledore regarded his old friend with a confident smile. "You didn't, however, so I surmise you were able to obtain something for us to go on."

Moody gave a quick nod. "'Melia gets some credit to," he growled. "She pressed the Americans to widen their search to Muggle databases such as telephone listings, published news articles, and the like. Here's what they came up with." He handed Dumbledore a sheet of Muggle paper with a grainy image of the front page of a newspaper on it. The newspaper had a photo of a black-haired man with a confused look on his face under the headline "DARRIN STEPHENS - NEXT HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMP?" Moody pointed at the photograph under the headline, to a woman caught halfway in the frame. "Look familiar?" he asked.

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded with satisfaction. "That is the woman from the Dursleys drawings. Very good, Alastor!"

"Well, that was only half the battle," Moody muttered. "Once we had the name Darrin Stephens, we traced his address at the time this photo was taken to 1164 Morning Glory Circle in Westport, Connecticut.

"Stephens worked for a Muggle company named McMann & Tate on Madison Avenue in New York City, from 1950 to 1990, when he retired to an exclusive community near West Palm Beach, Florida with his wife —" Moody paused for a moment "— Samantha Stephens."

Dumbledore nodded with satisfaction. "Congratulations on your fine detective work, Alastor!"

"Yeah," Moody growled. "I suppose after nearly a hundred years as an Auror I was bound to get _something_ right." He still looked unhappy, however.

Dumbledore picked up on that. "There is something more you wish to say, Alastor?"

"There's nothing about either of these people in the Department of Magic's census of witches and wizards living in either Connecticut or Florida — as far as the DOM is concerned, they're Muggles. But the Dursleys remember seeing the woman perform magic in front of them. That's a red flag to me, Albus."

"I take your meaning," Dumbledore nodded. "How have they managed to avoid being registered as witch or wizard for all these years?"

"As far as I can tell, the husband, Darrin, _is_ a Muggle," Moody said. "His Muggle records show he was born in 1928 to Frank and Phyllis Stephens in Patterson, New York, attended New York State College from 1946 to 1950, obtaining a degree in journalism with a minor in business administration. He rose up through the ranks of McMann  & Tate, becoming a partner in the business in 1975 until he retired in 1990. There's nothing really remarkable about him.

"But the _woman_ ," Moody continued. "I couldn't find any Muggle records of her at all. None. She seems to be a complete unknown until she married Stephens in 1964. As near as I can figure, she's a witch posing as a Muggle. The big question is, why would she take the Potter boy out of Britain in the first place?" Moody shrugged. "I don't have an answer to that, except the Dursleys said she told them Harry was a distant relative. But I'm guessin' your primary concern is just getting Potter back here, not why she took him."

"Perhaps we can follow that up once Harry has returned to Britain," Dumbledore mused. "I trust you foresee no difficulties in traveling to Florida to recover him?" Albus asked.

"Nope," Moody shook his head. "A simple in-and-out operation. D'you want to come with? Get you out of this stuffy old office for a bit, out into the real world for a change. It would do those old bones some good," the old Auror grinned as he ribbed his long-time friend.

Albus leaned back with a chuckle, taking a moment to sip at his long-forgotten cup of tea. "Thank you, Alastor, but the demands of Hogwarts and the Wizengamot are too pressing for such a trip. I trust when you return you will regale me with tales of the beauty of Florida. You may even find a place there you can retire to — I hear America is an up-and-coming haven for those about to enter their golden years," Dumbledore smiled.

"Right," Moody chuckled, then stood. "I'll bring the boy back, Albus. Where d'you want 'im when I return — here or back at Privet Drive?"

Albus considered a moment. "Harry will come to Hogwarts soon enough — his first year begins this September. I would not wish to deprive him of the wonder of learning about the Wizarding world on his own. If you would return him to his aunt and uncle's house, please. And do make sure to charm them so they remember only that he was visiting a relative in, say, Cokeworth."

Moody nodded a final time, then turned to the large fireplace. "I'll let you know when I'm done," he said, taking a pinch of Floo powder and tossing it into the embers, which promptly flared into bright green flames. "—!" he said loudly, though the only sound that reached the Headmaster's ears was a hiss of white noise; Moody disliked anyone knowing his destination. Then he stepped into the fireplace and vanished in a swirl of green flames.

 **=ooo=**

 _2 July 1991, 7:00 a.m.—_

Moody arranged his departure from Britain for early morning, knowing the time change across the Atlantic would put his arrival there in the middle of the night, around 2 a.m., giving him the additional cover of darkness in his mission to breach the Stephens home, locate the Potter boy, and Portkey him back to Britain. He estimated his total time in America would be around five minutes; time inside the house would be less than a minute. Like he told Dumbledore: a simple in-and-out mission.

The Portkey to America had been arranged with Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE, without the knowledge of the American Department of Magic. Normal protocol was to alert the American DOM of visits by any Ministry personnel, but he and Bones had agreed to keep this operation covert. What the Americans didn't know wouldn't hurt them, they reasoned.

The Portkey destination was a grove of trees lining an open field about a half-mile from the community where the Stephens lived. The trees would serve as cover for his arrival; international Portkeys could be rather noisy. Moody arrived amid a whirlwind of flashing colors; fortunately, the trees blocked the view of the houses nearest the road.

From there it was a quick Apparition to the Stephens home, a ranch-style residence popular in that region. Florida, being in the south of North America (confusing as that was), was warmer than Britain, though like the UK at night it was cooled by oceans winds that drew off daytime heat. The house wasn't small, perhaps 1800 square feet — spacious by magical Britain standards, yet cozy for American tastes.

The doors and windows of the home were protected by a Muggle security system that was child's play for Moody to disable. There were no magical protections or wards at all, a sign to Moody that if a witch lived here she had gotten sloppy over time. Before he entered the house Moody twirled his wand above his head, adding a Disillusionment Charm to the cover of darkness.

Moving around to the rear of the house, Moody used a simple _Alohomora_ on the back door and slipped inside. He'd been careful to cast a Silencing Charm on his wooden leg so it made no sound that could give him away.

Once inside he immediately cast _Homenum Revelio,_ locating everyone in the house. He detected three humans — two sleeping in a larger bedroom, a smaller one not from him down a short hallway. Moody toward the smaller human.

The door to the room was unlocked. Another sign of sloppiness. Moody cast Silencing Charms on the hinges then magically pushed the door open, just enough to slip through without touching either door or frame. He cast an anti-Apparition Jinx in the room to prevent anyone from Apparating in at the last moment. So far everything was going by the numbers, just as he'd planned.

The boy was in a small bed, sleeping peacefully. Perfect! He wouldn't even know what happened until the Portkey whisked him away from here back to Britain. Moody slipped across the room, his electric blue eye whirling in its socket, keeping every part of the room in his field of view, even directly behind him. He took out the Portkey, an old sock, and reached down to touch the boy's shoulder with it. Once in contact he would say the activation word and they would be whisked off to Amelia's office in the Ministry. From there he could determine if it was safe to return the boy to Privet drive. His hand moved downward slowly, slowly…

 _Too_ slowly, Moody suddenly realized. His hand had stopped moving forward. He tried to step back but that was impossible, too. He was frozen in place! How could this happen?! There was no one in the room except him and the boy!

"Well, well…" a woman's voice startled him. "What do we have here?" A woman appeared across the bed from Moody, a redhead in green and purple robes, staring coldly at him. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked.

There was no wand in her hand, Moody realized. How was she doing this? He needed to retreat, to speak the Portkey trigger word, but his mouth was frozen, too! A glaring flaw in his otherwise perfect plan.

"Well?" the woman demanded. "Speak up!" She made a flicking gesture with her hand toward his face. "Tell me why you're here!"

Moody opened his mouth to speak the trigger word, but what came out was, "I'm here to bring the Potter boy back to Britain. Ret—" his mouth froze again before he could complete the trigger word.

In the bed, Harry was waking up. He stirred, then looked around in the dark, trying to see what was going on. "Aunt Endora? Is that you?"

"Yes, Harry," the redhead said. "And someone else as well." She gestured toward the ceiling and the lights came on, making both Harry and Moody's one eye blink from the sudden brightness. Harry finally saw Moody and shrank back in fear — the Auror's hand was only inches away from him! And what was he doing holding a _sock_?

"Do you recognize this man, Harry?" Endora asked.

Giving his eyes a moment to adjust, Harry peered at Moody from under a hand shielding his eyes from the light. "No, Aunt Endora. He looks pretty awful, though — what happened to him?"

"Nothing compared to what _will_ happen to him if he doesn't explain himself," Endora said, coldly. "Breaking into a home in the middle of the night to steal the boy — really!"

 _This can't be happening_ , Moody thought wildly. The witch he was facing had somehow Apparated through an anti-Apparition ward — or she had been here all along, but that was impossible, too! His Eye could see through Disillusionment Charms and most invisibility cloaks. The only cloak his Eye couldn't penetrate was the one Albus had borrowed from James Potter before he died, and that was still with Albus! The spell binding him wasn't even a Body-Bind curse — that spell forced your arms and legs straight, but he was frozen in mid-motion, only inches from his goal! His other hand, inside his cloak, was holding his wand, but repeated non-verbal _Finite Incatatems_ were having no effect on whatever spells were binding him. He was helpless. It was not a good situation for the long-time Auror to find himself in.

The door suddenly swung wide, and the blonde woman from the newspaper clippings ran into the room, coming up short when she saw Moody. "Mother?!" she exclaimed. "What's going on in here?!"

"I found this — person — in the room about to take Harry," the redhead replied. "I thought I'd wait until you got here so he could tell us both why he's here.

The blonde glared at him. "Good," she said. "I'd like to hear that, too!"

"First," Endora said. "I'll take that disgusting sock he's holding. It seems to be some type of transportation device." She gestured again and the sock came out of his hand and floated over next to her, where it hung motionless in the air.

"Now, speak," she said, with a gesture that made Moody's head buzz uncomfortably. "You will tell only the truth from now on."

"I'm Alastor Moody, from the British Ministry of Magic," the Auror muttered, unable to hold his tongue or try to disguise his true intentions. "This boy was removed from his home in Surrey a week ago by a woman who identified herself as Samantha Stephens. I'm here to bring him back."

"That's _not_ going to happen," the blonde said firmly. "Harry was being abused by those people. He's in our care, now, so you can go back and tell whoever's trying to take him back to just forget about him."

"We can't just forget about him," Moody replied. "He's too important to Britain to let him get away."

"I don't believe that," Samantha shook her head. "He wasn't important enough for you to put him in a good home, with people who cared for him. He's undernourished, and there were bruises on him from where his cousin hit him! I'd like to know who decided he should be with those people!"

Moody tried not to reply but the compulsion to tell the truth was too strong. It was like someone had poured a whole bottle of Veritaserum down his throat! "It — was — Albus Dumbledore who placed the boy with his blood aunt."

"Ah, interesting," Endora commented, smiling. "He's the Chief Wizard of Magical Britain, if I recall correctly. I wonder what his business is with young Harry?"  
"Whatever it is, it's certainly no reason to leave him with abusive relatives," Samantha replied. She turned back to Moody. "This is what we're going to do. You go back to Dumbledore and tell him, if he wants to explain to me why he wants Harry back in England, he can come visit me and we can discuss things like normal, rational adults. But you sneaking in here trying to steal Harry is no way to do it! Do you understand?"

Moody tried to nod but he was still frozen. "I understand," he muttered. "I'll go back and talk to Dumbledore, see what he wants to do." At the moment all he wanted was to get out of here. The things these women were able to do, even _without_ wands, was astonishing.

"Alright, then." Samantha looked at the redhead. "Mother —?"

The redhead made a face, as if she disagreed with the blonde's decision, but she gestured at Moody and he was suddenly able to move again.

"Thank you," he said, stiffly. He held out his hand. "I need the sock so I can go back to Britain." There might still be a chance to salvage the situation: he was standing right over the Potter boy; when the sock floated into his hand, he could touch the boy and say the word, whisking them back to Britain. His one eye flickered momentarily toward Harry—

"Don't even _think_ it, buster," Endora, the redhead, warned him. "Or you'll find yourself on the top of Mount Everest. In your _underwear_."

Could she really do that? Moody didn't want to find out. He took a step back from the bed, until the Potter boy was out of his reach. His mission had failed. The only thing he could do now was retreat. "Well?" he pressed, when the sock remained floating next to the redhead. "May I leave?"

"You may," Endora said dismissively. "But I think we'll keep the sock as a little memento of your visit."

"Then how am I getting home?" Moody asked.

"Like this." Endora gestured at him with both hands and Moody vanished. "There," she said, satisfied. "I sent him to the same place his smelly bit of footwear would have taken him."

After the man was gone Samantha sat down on the bed next to Harry. "Are you alright?" she asked him in a motherly tone. Harry nodded, then impulsively hugged her.

"Thank you," he said, his head pressed against her shoulder. "I wish I knew why they want me back in Britain. I thought the Dursleys didn't like me at all!"

"I don't think it's them," Samantha said, patting Harry's back comfortingly. "Albus Dumbledore is an important wizard in England, but their magic is a lot less powerful than ours." She looked at Endora. "I found out quite a bit about them when I was researching Harry's ancestry. I never knew there was that much of a wand culture around the world," she said.

Endora shrugged. "I've never paid them much mind. They think more like mortals than we do. The longest-lived among them only live to a century and a half or so."

"I wonder what's so important about Harry that Dumbledore sent that man to take him back?" Samantha mused. "The newspaper articles I read about Harry called him the Boy-Who-Lived, and there was lots of speculation about him in the past ten years since the night his parents died, but I didn't see anything else about why they might need him there."

"I'm sure Dumbledore has his reasons, whatever they are," Endora shrugged.

"You're not going to send me back, are you?" Harry asked, worried. "What if they want me to go back to the Dursleys?"

"You're not going back to the Dursleys," Samantha said firmly. "I won't permit that, Harry, no matter what Dumbledore does to try to get you back. If he _does_ try something," she added determinedly. "He's not going to like what happens, I can tell you that!"

"But," Harry spoke up. "What could they want with me _now_? If I'm so important, why was I with my aunt and uncle instead of being with those other witches and warlocks?"

"They're called 'wizards,' Harry, not warlocks,' Endora told him. "Warlocks don't need to use wands to perform magic, wizards do. And that's a very good question, by the way," she added, to Samantha.

"Yes, it is," Samantha mused. She put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll find out what they want with you. For now, you keep practicing with Mother and building up your magical strength." Harry nodded happily. "Alright, let's get some sleep now." Harry laid back and she tucked him in. "Sleep tight," she said.

"I will," Harry nodded, and Samantha and Endora left the room.

Harry stayed awake for a while, wondering just what the wand wizards wanted with him. If his aunt or uncle knew they never said anything about it to him — in fact they hated whenever he made the slightest mention of his father and mother, or anything at all about their lives before they were killed.

Now he knew the truth: his parents had been killed by someone named Lord Voldemort, who had tried to kill him as well. From what Samantha had told him, the witches and wizards in Britain had a war that lasted over a decade, until that night in 1981 when Harry's parents had been killed. But when Voldemort tried to kill Harry, something unexpected happened. The wizard blew up and Harry was left unharmed except for the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

How he ended up at the Dursleys was unknown. Samantha said there was nothing about what happened to him in any of the papers she read. Harry hoped that the wizard the scarred-looking man had spoken of, Albus Dumbledore, could fill in the details they were lacking. Harry finally rolled over and fell asleep, hoping the mystery behind his ten years on Privet Drive would finally be solved.


	3. The Birthday Surprise

.

 **Chapter Three**

 **The Birthday Surprise**  
 _Updated_ 8/14/2015

=ooo=

 _2 July 1991, 8:35 p.m.  
_ _Charing Cross Road, The Leaky Cauldron—_

The pub's dusty fireplace roared momentarily to life, filling with emerald flames that rose, swirled and congealed into human form, becoming a tall, white-haired wizard with half-moon spectacles and a long, crooked nose.

Patrons in the pub looked up from their drinks and conversations, then raised their hands or glasses in greeting to the instantly recognizable wizard known as Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and the holder of an Order of Merlin, First Class. Dumbledore smiled and nodded congenially to everyone around him, then made his way over to the bar where the Leaky Cauldron's barman and innkeeper, Tom, smiled toothlessly at the wizard's approach.

"Evening to you, sir," Tom nodded respectfully. "Get you a drink tonight?"

"I believe I would enjoy some lemonade, Tom," Dumbledore replied.

"Sorry, sir," Tom said apologetically. "I didn't make any today."

"Ah, well," Dumbledore said, with a winsome smile. "Perhaps, then, a cup of Merlin's Best Mead."

As Tom poured the drink, Dumbledore casually turned to face the seating area, locating the person he had come to meet. "There you are, sir," Tom said, placing the drink in front of the old wizard. Dumbledore reached for the cup, leaving a stack of Sickles where it had been.

"Many thanks, Tom," Dumbledore lifted the glass as he turned and walked over to where Alastor Moody was sitting, his back against a wall of the pub, well away from any windows. Why Moody had asked to meet him here, rather than in his office after returning the Potter boy to Privet Drive, had piqued Dumbledore's curiosity.

"Greetings, Alastor," Dumbledore said quietly as he approached the table. The Auror was already well into his cups — two empty hip flasks were on the table in front of him, and he drained a third one as Dumbledore approached. "Did the mission go well?"

"No," Moody mumbled. His Eye stared into the hip flask he had just emptied. "No, it didn't go well at all."

"What happened?" Dumbledore asked, concerned. "Where is Harry Potter?"

"Still in America," Moody muttered. He reached into his cloak and took out another flask, unscrewing the top and draining half of its contents in one swig. He let his arm and the flask fall heavily to the table, wiping his mouth with his free hand. "That woman, that — Samantha Stephens," he said, slurring his words. "She's not a witch. Neither is her mother."

Dumbledore unobtrusively brought out his wand and cast a Privacy Charm around them. Now no one else in the pub would hear their conversation. "What do you mean, Alastor? If the Stephens woman isn't a witch, what is she?"

"Something a bloody lot _more_ powerful than a witch, I can tell you that," Moody replied thickly, taking another drink. Briefly, he described entering the house, thinking it was only lightly protected with Muggle safeguards, and finding the boy, only to be stopped in his tracks by a red-headed witch who was apparently Samantha Stephens' mother. "I was frozen stiff before I could get close enough to the boy, Albus. That woman just _waved her hand_ at me and the next thing I know, I'm spilling my guts to her and the Stephens woman! It was like gettin' three drops of Veritaserum, even though I'm supposed to be _immune_ to the stuff!"  
Dumbledore frowned. "This is quite troubling, Alastor."

"You're tellin' me?!" Moody snorted. "Her mum, a red-headed witch or whatever-she-is, threatened to send me to Mount Everest _in my underwear_ if I tried to Portkey out with the boy. And I believed she could do it, too!"

"What I mean," Dumbledore clarified, "it is quite troubling you were unable to accomplish your mission. We must bring Harry back to Britain. You know why, Alastor."

"Yeah," Moody growled. "Well, it doesn't matter. I'm out."

Dumbledore raised a bushy white eyebrow. "Out? Are you, the most famous Auror in the Ministry's history, actually conceding defeat?"

"You're damned right I am," Moody snapped. "One second I was reaching for Potter, about to activate the Portkey to return to Privet Drive, the next I'm frozen solid, helpless. It wasn't even like a Full Body-Bind curse — I was just immobilized where I stood. I couldn't even say the word to activate the Portkey an' get myself out of there until they let me move again!

"So here's what I came to tell you, Dumbledore." Moody looked him in the eye. "That Stephens woman is willing to talk to you about Harry Potter, but she's not giving him up."

"Why is she protecting the boy?" Dumbledore asked. "Did she tell you?"

Moody shook his head. "Just said the boy was in her care now. Said the Dursleys were mistreating him. They probably _were_ , too — when I talked with them they were ecstatic he was gone. Sounded like they never wanted him there in the first place." Moody stared at the elder wizard for a long moment before adding, "I wondered why you never bothered to find out what kind of people they were before you left the boy with them, Albus."

"They were his only family, Alastor," Dumbledore replied. "I did assume they would want to care for him as one of their own."

"Well, you were _wrong_ , then!" Moody laughed harshly. "They locked him in a cupboard at night, fed him barely enough to keep him from wasting away, forced him to do chores around the house when he wasn't in school, and his fat lump of a cousin regularly knocked him about. The aunt and uncle treated him like an indentured servant — worse, really, since they punished him by withholding food if he did anything they didn't approve of. And that happened a _lot_ , since there were loads of occurrences of accidental magic."

"Oh, dear," Dumbledore sighed. "I did not realize —"

"Oh, right," Moody said sarcastically. "The great, all-wise, all-knowing Albus Dumbledore didn't realize the Boy-Who-Lived was being treated like a slave by his own family. Weren't you getting reports from Arabella? Didn't she tell you how badly his family was treating him?"

"He never said anything to her to indicate they were," Dumbledore protested. "But she saw him only a few times during the year, usually when his aunt and uncle went on vacation."

"They left the boy with old Figgy when they went on holiday?" Moody shook his head. "That should've tipped you off right there how things were, Albus, if they weren't taking the boy with them."  
"You are right, Alastor," Dumbledore muttered, realizing just how remiss he'd been in ensuring Harry was being cared for by his mother's family. "I should talk to the Stephens woman, apologize for my laxity in making sure Harry was safe and cared for."

"Yeah," Moody said, then slowly (and somewhat unsteadily) got to his feet. He picked up each of the flasks on the table in front of him, hiding them in different pockets within his cloak. "Well, good luck with that. Now, I'm going over to the Ministry to put in for my retirement."

"Retirement?" Dumbledore looked up at Moody in surprise. "Why?"

"I've been an Auror near a hundred years now," Moody replied. "I've fought some of the most powerful Dark wizards out there in that time. I even fought old Voldie himself once — that ended up costin' me an eye an' a leg." He pointed at his electric blue Eye. "Always been grateful to you for findin' this for me, Albus.

"But after what happened to me at the Stephens' house — well, all I can say is, those two women have more magic than you or I will ever know about." Moody shook his grizzled, gray head. "Time for me call it quits. I'll still be around if you need me back in the Order."

Moody put a hand on Dumbledore's shoulder. "If ye're gonna go talk to those women about Potter, I suggest caution. _Lots_ of caution. Better yet, don't go at all. You'll do better going out to look for Riddle on yer own rather than waitin' for him to show up on your doorstep."

Moody started to remove his hand but Dumbledore stopped him by putting his own hand over it. "Alastor," he said, with forced patience. "You know that Tom's weakness has always been his arrogance. He has always attacked before he was ready — that was the only reason we were able to keep him from taking over the Ministry during the last war."

Moody shook his head. "Maybe, except he _was_ winning, there at the end. He would have beaten us if he hadn't gone after the Potters." Moody stared down at Dumbledore. "You never told me exactly how the Potter lad managed to defeat him that night."

Dumbledore looked up to meet the Auror's eyes. "Lily defeated him, not Harry. She used an ancient blood protection spell, evoked when Voldemort killed her, that protected Harry when he tried to kill him. It was an obscure spell, of limited use, and Tom never believed spells of such limited scope were useful to him. It was that lack of knowledge that defeated him.

"Now, with Harry about to enter the Wizarding world, Tom is likely to return as well, to exact his revenge," Dumbledore concluded.

Moody grunted a laugh. "He's little more'n a ghost, accordin' to you," the old Auror growled. "How's he gonna take revenge on Potter when he's less than a wisp a' vapor?"

"Even in his current form he still has some remnant of power. I believe he will try to possess the boy if he finds him outside Hogwarts or the protection of Privet Drive," Dumbledore said. "Now that Harry is beyond the protections afforded by his mother's blood, he is in even more danger. That is why he must return to his home or to Hogwarts as soon as possible."

Moody patted Dumbledore's shoulder. "Good luck with that, then. I hope you succeed. I'll see you around, Albus." His rough, gnarled hand slipped out from under Dumbledore's, and the Auror limped to the door of the Leaky Cauldron and vanished into the evening dusk.

Alastor had been shaken by his encounter with the Stephens women, Dumbledore realized. A man of his years of experience did not lightly dismiss that experience without justification. Moody had said there was nothing in any Muggle records about Samantha Stephens before she married Darrin Stephens in 1964. There was nothing about her in the records of the American Department of Magic, either. This constituted something of a mystery, and unlike Moody, Dumbledore was quite fond of mysteries. They presented a challenge to him, and he never tired of meeting challenges, and solving them. Before he spoke to this Stephens woman he would unravel the mystery surrounding her and the relationship implied between her and Harry Potter. And, he had an excellent idea just who could help him with the research.

Dumbledore canceled his now-useless Privacy Charm, drained his cup of mead and stood, striding toward the fireplace. Hands and cups were once again raised as he passed, but he didn't acknowledge them this time. Taking out his wand, he flicked it once as he neared the fireplace. Green flames flared again, and Dumbledore murmured a phrase as he stepped into the flames and vanished.

=ooo=

 _July 30, 1991, 11:45 a.m.  
_ _The Headmaster's office—_

The flames in Dumbledore's fireplace spun once again into the form of a man, who came to rest facing the Headmaster's desk. Moody always arrived with wand drawn and ready for anything, but the man who'd just arrived in his office this day made no attempt to defend or protect himself upon arrival. The man had a thin, pale face, with premature lines that made his true age hard to determine. He brushed gray ash from his light brown hair and shabby, patched robes, nodding to Dumbledore as he stepped forward. "Good morning to you, Headmaster."

"Greetings, Remus," Dumbledore said amiably, gesturing to a chair next to his desk. He had been looking forward to this visit for some time, hoping Remus Lupin, one of the best and brightest students ever to attend Hogwarts, would bring with him some insight into the true identity of Samantha Stephens, the woman who was holding Harry Potter hostage from Britain, where he was so sorely needed. "Would you like something to drink before we begin?"

Remus hesitated a moment. "It's a bit early, but yes," he quietly agreed. "Do you have any butterbeer?"

In reply Dumbledore reached down and opened a drawer on his desk's right side. He then reached into that drawer and opened another drawer. This continued for several more iterations until with a clink of glass on glass he placed two bottles on the table between them.

Dumbledore rummaged around for a few more seconds, then sighed and shut the drawers he'd opened. "I seem to have misplaced my bottle opener," he said apologetically. "But no matter." Reaching up, he tapped the caps on the butterbeer bottles with a fingertip. The caps promptly popped off, disappearing as they spun into the air.

Remus and the Headmaster each picked up a bottle and clinked them together in a silent toast before drinking. "Ahh," Remus smacked his lips when he finished drinking. "It's been a while…" he sighed.

"Since your last butterbeer?" Albus smiled.

"Since my last _anything_ ," Remus replied. "I _am_ grateful you thought of me for this research project, Professor."

There was an undercurrent of gloom in the man's tone. "I sense a 'but' coming, Remus," he replied in a soft tone.

"I'm afraid so," Remus nodded. He took another swig of the butterbeer, then set it aside and removed a folder from his cloak.

"I began in Westport, Connecticut, the town in America where the Stephens lived after they were married, searching newspaper archives and local magazines for any mention of their engagement or wedding." He pulled a photocopy of a page from a newspaper from the folder and showed it to Dumbledore. It showed a photograph of the bride and groom in their wedding clothes. The copy under the photo read,

STEPHENS – Samantha, daughter of  
Maurice and Endora, was united in  
marriage with Darrin Stephens,  
of Patterson, New York, son of  
Frank and Phyllis Stephens, on  
September 17, 1964.

"That's all there was," Remus said, pointing at the clipping. "Nothing about the bride's or her parent's last names or where they lived. No church, no time, nothing!" Remus shrugged helplessly. "Every other wedding notice I looked at in the paper had loads more information than this!"

"Curiouser and curiouser," Dumbledore murmured, intrigued.

"It gets worse," Lupin said. He pulled out several more newspaper clippings. "I found several other mentions of the Stephens' name in local papers over the years," he said, laying them out for Dumbledore to look at. There was a photo of Samantha Stephens holding a guitar and waving at the camera; the previously-seen picture of Darrin Stephens staring at his fist under a headline touting him as the "Next Heavyweight Champ"; another head-shot of the husband under a headline saying "Ad Man Foils Bank Robber"; another picture of Darrin Stephens trapped on the Eiffel Tower as rescue crews tried to get him down; and finally, an image of an infant captioned "Tabitha Stephens" under a headline that read "INFANT TALKS SENSE!"

"Most of these articles are about the husband, Darrin Stephens," Remus explained. "Now, it's been well-established that he's a Muggle, but the strangeness of the situations he finds himself in — knocking out a heavyweight boxing champion, stopping a bank robbery, finding himself atop the Eiffel Tower — suggests the presence of magic." He pointed to the picture of Tabitha. "This article, about an infant that could speak in full sentences like an adult, suggests either that the child was a witch or that her mother was playing a prank on some Muggles and it escalated out of control, as evidenced by the newspaper article. However, except for this picture of the Stephens woman—" Remus tapped the photo of her holding the guitar "— and her face half-shown in the boxing photo, she remained almost unnoticed during her time in Westport."

Dumbledore sat back, steepling his fingers in thoughtful contemplation. "And since their move to Florida?"

"Nothing at all from that end," Remus shook his head. "They've been a typical retired Muggle couple, as far as anyone can tell. I interviewed all of the neighbors along their street and no one thinks of them as anything more than a happy, outgoing husband and wife. The husband plays golf with his former boss, Larry Tate, and a few buddies every weekend. Tate is a Muggle too, by the way. He retired from the company where Stephens worked in 1985, putting Stephens in charge and installing his son J. Michael Tate as a junior partner, shortly after he married Stephens' daughter Tabitha.

"Samantha, Stephens' wife, volunteers at the homeowners' association for the community they live in. Everything about them is rather dull and normal — except for the fact that young Harry has now been living with them for the past month."

"And you were unable to uncover any other information on the Stephens woman?" Dumbledore pressed.

"Not a bit," Remus admitted. "Other than the few photographs you've seen. She's a complete blank to the American Department of Magic — Madam Bones went so far as to put out a 'Witch on the Lam' alert on her with the DOM, but that WOL came up empty as well."

Dumbledore repressed a sigh of disappointment. "An impressive display of detective work, my friend! I am sorry it proved fruitless, but it was worth making the effort."

"Do you want me to keep looking, Headmaster?" Remus asked, hopefully. "I could broaden the scope of my search —"

But the old wizard raised a hand and Lupin fell silent. "I believe another tactic is in order, Remus, one I shall undertake myself." He stood. "I do appreciate your hard work, and I will strongly consider you again if I find further effort to be necessary."

Remus stood as well, understanding that he was being dismissed. "Thank you again, sir," he said, leaving the folder on the Headmaster's desk as he turned and strode to the fireplace. "I am available whenever you need me," he said over his shoulder, taking a pinch of Floo powder and tossing it into the flames. "The Leaky Cauldron!" Lupin said, then vanished into the swirl of green fire.

Dumbledore returned to his chair, opening and reaching into another drawer, and continuing a half-dozen drawers deep until he found what he was looking for — a folded cloak of grayish-silver material, feather-light in his hands. Perhaps this would be the inducement Harry needed to return to the land of his birth. Even if he could not appeal to the Stephens woman to release Harry, he might be able to persuade Harry himself, especially once he learned this Cloak had been his father's prized possession.

=ooo=

 _July 31, 1991  
_ _The Stephens' home—_

Harry smiled happily as Samantha walked into the dining room carrying his birthday cake, a large round chocolate one with green writing on it saying HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY, and eleven brand-new candles on top.

If he'd been back on Privet Drive a day like this would have been unthinkable. Dudley would be furious that Harry was getting more attention than he was, and that was even if Vernon and Petunia decided to celebrate his birthday in the first place! The only present Harry had ever gotten on his birthday was an old pair of his uncle Vernon's frayed socks that Petunia tossed into his cupboard the morning he turned nine years old. Socks, incidentally, that she had neglected to wash beforehand. Harry managed to slip them in with other dirty clothes when his aunt made him gather them up for that day's wash, and after they were clean he snuck them in his pocket and hung them up in his cupboard to dry.

The month of July had gone by quickly. Aunt Endora had been teaching him how to use the magic he'd felt building inside him since taking the pills Dr. Bombay had given to him. He could now move objects around without touching them, turn himself invisible or intangible at will, and he could hear Samantha or Endora calling for him wherever he was. For the past week he'd been learning the basics of flying, and after his birthday Aunt Endora had promised to begin teaching him spellcraft, the art of magical incantations, which would enhance his magical abilities even more.

Harry eagerly soaked up this knowledge. It was amazing being able to perform feats of magic with a simple thought or a casual gesture. The only thing that puzzled him was, _why_ did his parents and other wizards use wands? They seemed unnecessary and cumbersome. When he'd questioned Endora on this point, however, she had merely shrugged and said that some witches were less fortunate than others, and to be thankful he was one of the lucky ones.

"Here we are," Samantha said, setting the cake down in front of Harry. He looked up, smiling at everyone around the table. Darrin was there, smiling proudly at him. Aunt Endora stood nearby, her usual mischievous grin on her face.

Along with his immediate family, three other people were present for his birthday. Samantha's daughter Tabitha was there, a pretty young blonde woman who looked a lot like Samantha. The man with her was her husband Michael, an advertising man like Darrin had been, who worked for the advertising firm of McMann, Tate & Stephens in New York.

The third person was Tabitha's daughter, Electra, an adorable five-year-old with blond tresses like her mother and grandmother, who was as excited to see the birthday cake as Harry was. "Let's eat cake!" she called out as Samantha set the cake on the table in front of Harry.

"Yes, we will, dear," Tabitha said to her as Samantha lit the candles for Harry to blow out. "First, let's watch Harry blow out the candles so we can have some."

"Go ahead, Harry, blow out the candles," Samantha said to him.

"Blow," Electra said, as Harry leaned forward, and a gust of wind blew out the candles before he take a breath.

The adults all laughed, and Harry managed a grin. Samantha lit the candles again. As Harry drew a breath to blow out the candles, Electra said "Blow!" again and they went out a second time. Electra laughed and clapped her hands.

"All right, that's enough," Tabitha told her daughter firmly. "It's Harry's turn to blow out the candles this time, do you understand?"

"Yes, mama," Electra said, then looked at the candles and said, "Fire!" The eleven candles on the cake lit once again.

"You'd better blow them out while they're still lit," Darrin suggested quietly. Harry nodded and quickly leaned forward, blowing them out. Everyone around the table applauded and he smiled at Electra, who laughed and applauded, too.

The cake was cut and slices were handed out, along with scoops of ice cream. "Very good," Darrin complimented Samantha as he took his first bite.

"You can thank Tabitha," Samantha replied, putting an arm around her daughter. "She made it."

"It's delicious, sweetheart," Darrin beamed at her.

"Thank you, Daddy," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Do you like it, Harry?" she asked the newest member of the family, who was just biting into his own piece.

"Yes, very much," Harry nodded. "It's the best birthday cake I've ever had!"

Tabitha smiled at him as she and her mother exchanged a look. Harry wasn't saying so, but it was probably the _first_ birthday cake he'd ever had. Samantha had told her about the difficulties Harry had faced with his previous family, the Dursleys — how he had slept in a cupboard and been forced to perform chores around his aunt and uncle's home, with no friends and a cousin who regularly beat him up. It was tragic, Tabitha thought, which had made the request her mother had asked of her all the more important to consider. She had discussed it with Michael and he had agreed to it. The only thing left to do was to talk to Harry about it.

Samantha, seeing Tabitha looking at Harry, intuited what her daughter was thinking. Everyone was nearly done with their cake, so she set down her plate and said, "Now that we've had dinner and some of Harry's birthday cake, I think it's time to open his presents." She gestured at the table and the cake and dinner settings disappeared, replaced by a stack of colorfully wrapped and bowed boxes. Harry's eyes grew large as he saw all the presents he'd received.

"Wow!" he exclaimed. "I can't believe it!"

He really couldn't. Instinctively he counted the boxes, comparing the total to the 36 presents Dudley had received on his birthday, but he realized at once that the Dursleys gave their son so many presents not because they loved him, but to keep him from throwing a tantrum for not getting as many as he had the year before. He shouldn't think of these presents as a competition between him and Dudley — he'd gotten these presents because he was — he was loved. The idea of someone truly loving him was something Harry had a hard time grasping, even after being here for a month. He looked around at everyone, smiling in order to cover up his confusion.

"Here we go," Samantha said, picking up a present and handing it to Harry. "Here's what Darrin and I got for you."

Harry grinned at her, then tore off the wrapping paper and opened the small box. "Wow!" he exclaimed as he saw what was inside. "I've always wanted one of these!" He took the wristwatch out of the box, holding it up for everyone to see.

"Oh! Very nice," Tabitha and Michael said. Electra held out her hand like she wanted to hold it. Endora raised an eyebrow at the gift but said nothing.

Harry handed the watch to Electra, hoping she wouldn't break it or make it vanish, and reached for the next present, a larger box that had a card with "To Harry, from Michael and Tabitha" on it. He pulled off the wrapping paper and took the top off the box, finding a winter coat and a jacket inside.

"Thank you very much," he said to them, wondering how cold it was going to get in Florida that winter.

"Mine!" Electra said, pointing to a small box on the table.

Harry looked at her and shook his head, smiling. "No," he said. "That's _my_ present."

Tabitha laughed. "She means it's her present to you, Harry."

"Oh," Harry said, feeling foolish for thinking otherwise. He picked up the small box and opened it. Inside was a single chocolate chip cookie wrapped in tissue. There was a small bite along one side of the cookie. Harry picked the cookie up, looking at it then Electra questioningly. Electra only smiled and said "Mine!" again.

"She made the cookie herself, Harry," Michael told him, interpreting for his daughter. "I think she took a bite out of it to prove it was good to eat."

Harry smiled, then bit into the cookie. It was delicious. "Good!" he said to Electra, holding up the cookie to show he'd eaten some of it, too. She clapped delightedly.

The next present had a card on it reading, "To Harry from Adam." Harry stared at the name for several seconds before asking, "Who's Adam?"

"My little brother," Tabitha replied. She glanced at Michael. "He, um, decided not to come to your party, he said he was busy with work."

Something about that didn't sound right to Harry, but he merely nodded and peeled off the wrapping paper, finding a book beneath it with the title _A Normal Life_ , by Edgar Evanston.

"It's a book about a man who was born to a witch and warlock who had no magical powers of his own," Tabitha explained. "Adam identifies with him since he has no magical powers himself."

"That sounds interesting," Harry said, looking at the book. "I'll send Adam a note thanking him for this."

"Now here's my present," Endora said, stepping forward and holding out her hands. The last present on the table floated upwards to her, and she handed the present to Harry.

"Thank you, Aunt Endora," Harry said, and pulled the wrapping off to find another book, this one in bound black leather with the words

 **The Book of Magic**

engraved across its front. "Every young witch and warlock receives a copy of this book when they turn six," Endora told him. "In your case it's a few years late, but you've been coming along nicely in your lessons, Harry. I think you're ready for it."

"Thank you very much, Aunt Endora!" Harry beamed, happy to receive a present like this. All of his presents had been great, but this one was the best! As he took it from Endora the book glowed momentarily with golden light, and Harry looked up at Endora inquiringly.

"The book is now yours," Endora explained. "Look inside the front cover."

Harry opened the book to the first page, where the words

 _Presented to and Owned by Harry James Potter, on July 31, 1991_

Samantha caught Tabitha's eye, and both of them moved to either side of the chair Harry was sitting in. "We have one more present for you, Harry," Samantha said. "I hope you like it, too."

Harry looked up at her expectantly. Samantha nodded to Tabitha.

"Mom and I have been talking," Tabitha told him. "We all want you to grow up in a family environment, with parents who will love and care for you."

 _Well, they_ can't _mean the Dursleys_ , Harry thought. Nevertheless, he felt a sense of apprehension hearing these words. What was wrong with the loving, caring people he was with right now, Darrin and Samantha, who had been absolutely wonderful to him since he arrived?

"What we want to do," Tabitha continued, "is to have you come and live with Michael, Electra and me as her big brother." She smiled hopefully. "What do you think about that, Harry?"

Harry was silent for several long seconds. He looked from Tabitha and Michael to Samantha and Darrin. "You want me to leave?" he finally said, a tremor in his voice.

"No!" Darrin said quickly. "Sam and I have loved having you here! It's just that…" his voice trailed off uncertainly. "Sam," he finally said. "Tell Harry what I'm thinking."

Harry turned to Samantha expectantly. "What's he thinking?"

"Well," Samantha hesitated. "Darrin's thinking that he and I are more like your grandparents than your parents, and while you're living with Michael and Tabitha you can come visit us whenever you like, just like you would regular grandparents."

"That's just what I was thinking," Darrin nodded, relieved.  
Harry looked disappointed. "I thought you wanted me _here_."

"We do, sweetheart!" Samantha assured him. "We really do! It's just that, well…" She hesitated, not sure what to say so Harry's feelings wouldn't be hurt.

Tabitha jumped into Samantha's silence. "It's just that Mom and Dad think you'll be better off with Michael and me. We've been thinking of having another child, and now we'd love to have you in our family. Electra is excited at the thought of having a brother." She smiled at her daughter sitting on her father's knees, and Electra pointed and said "Harry!" with a huge smile on her face.

After a moment Harry smiled back at her. "I think that will be wonderful," he said, really meaning it. For a few seconds he had felt like he was being rejected again, but he realized everyone here had his best interests at heart. The Dursleys had _never_ been happy to have him in their home.

"How delightful," Endora said, though there was a tinge of disapproval in her tone. Harry thought he'd have to ask her about that privately at some point. Were there things going on in Michael and Tabitha's home he didn't know about? At least he wasn't just being thrown into this like his going to live with the Dursleys had been. "It appears Harry and I will be continuing our lessons at his new home."

"I can help with those lessons, Grandmother," Tabitha volunteered.

"Me too!" Electra shouted, raising a hand to volunteer as well.

"And Electra can help, too," her mother agreed, laughing.

The doorbell rang at that moment, and Samantha went to answer it. She opened the door to find a tall, older gentleman in a Victorian-era suit, giving her a friendly smile from behind a waist-length white beard and bright blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles. Underneath one arm was a brightly-wrapped box. "Good afternoon," the old man greeted her with a small bow. "Are you Mrs. Samantha Stephens?"

"I am," Samantha said, recognizing the man despite the outdated mortal clothing he was wearing. "And you are Albus Dumbledore."

The man bowed again, more deeply this time. "Your servant, Mrs. Stephens." He held out the present he was carrying. "I apologize for disturbing you, but I have brought a present for young Harry, something his father lent me a long time ago, that should be returned to him."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Dumbledore," Samantha said. She opened the door wider. "Won't you come in?"

"Thank you," Dumbledore said, stepping inside. The inside of the home was typical for Muggle American homes, with a living room, an adjoining dining room; he could see other members of the family were gathered around Harry and a table loaded with presents. Albus also sensed other rooms in the home: two bedrooms, a den where no doubt the husband, Darrin, spent his leisure time, and other areas such as bathrooms and rooms filled with Muggle contrivances. Attached to the house was a garage where Muggle transportation devices known as "automobiles" were stored when not in use.

"Harry, could you come in here, please," Samantha called, and Harry jumped up from his chair and ran into the living room, stopping when he saw the tall man in the strange clothes.

"Harry," Samantha said, introducing them. "This is Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of a school for witches and wizards in northern Scotland. Mr. Dumbledore, this is Harry Potter. Though I believe you may have met him before today," she added in a cooler tone, remembering the note the Dursleys had shown her.

"Hello, Harry," Dumbledore extended a hand toward Harry, who after a moment took it and shook hands. "I've brought a present for you that your father James left in my care before—" he paused for only a moment before continuing "— before the events that passed in 1981. Here it is." He handed the box to Harry. For its size the box was very light, almost as if it was empty.

Harry glanced at Samantha. "Go ahead," she urged, nodding. "Open it."

Harry pulled off the wrapping and opened the box beneath it. Inside was a gleaming silvery-gray shape that made Harry think of a fairy's wings grown to fantastic size. He took hold of it, letting the box fall to the ground, and held it up for everyone to see. The old man was beaming at him. "What is it?" Harry asked.

"It is a Cloak of Invisibility," Dumbledore said. "Your father James loaned it to me so I might study its properties more closely."

"It's pretty cool," Harry agreed. "But I already know how to become invisible."

Dumbledore blinked. "I beg your pardon, Harry?"

"I can become invisible now," Harry said. "See?" He promptly disappeared, leaving the Cloak dangling in mid-air without apparent support.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, hiding his astonishment. The boy had been living with his Muggle relatives only a month ago! How could he have mastered a wandless, nonverbal and near-perfect Disillusionment Charm in such a short time?

"Alright, Harry, you've made your point," Samantha said firmly, and Harry reappeared, still holding the Cloak. "Well, Mr. Dumbledore, if you're finished here…"

"It is 'Professor' Dumbledore, Mrs. Stephens," the Headmaster said. "And I do wish to discuss a matter of some importance with you concerning Harry's future.

"Really?" Samantha said, unsurprised. She'd half-expected something like this, what with their neighbors talking about a man who'd been questioning them about her and Darrin. Tabitha had told her the same thing about her neighbors in Westport, how someone was questioning them about the former occupants of 1164 Morning Glory Circle, where Tabitha and Michael now lived.

"I think we might have a few questions for you as well, _Professor_."

By now Endora, Darrin, Tabitha and Michael, along with Electra had come into the living room, and were eyeing the new arrival with varying degrees of curiosity, skepticism, and annoyance.

"By all means," Dumbledore agreed. "However —" his voice lowered to a near-whisper. "Do you think it might be possible for me to have a word with young Harry in private beforehand?" he asked. "I would like to apologize for my laxity in making sure he was well cared for at his aunt and uncle's home." In reality, he hoped to avoid the Stephens woman's questions entirely. If his ruse worked he would Portkey away with Harry to a Fidelius-Charmed safe house where Harry would stay until it was time for classes to begin at Hogwarts in September. During the school year he would smooth things over with Petunia and her husband, making sure they understood Harry deserved better treatment that he'd been getting in past years, and the protection enchantment keeping him safe when he was not at Hogwarts would remain in place.

But Samantha smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid not, Professor. After that little stunt your friend tried to pull, sneaking into our house and trying to leave with Harry, I can't allow that. And just so you're not tempted to try something foolish anyway —"

She held out her hand and a small device like a cigarette lighter appeared there. At the same moment Dumbledore felt a void where only a moment earlier his Deluminator had been secreted within his robes. The woman had somehow summoned it out of the pocket where he'd hidden it!

"An interesting device," Samantha commented, looking it over for a moment. "It has several functions, including one that identifies anyone saying your name, 'Dumbledore.' It also has a one-time spell on it that would allow you to teleport away with a single command, along with anyone touching the device at the time." Samantha put the trinket in her pocket. "I'll just hang onto this until it's time for you to leave."

Dumbledore blinked in surprise. It was beginning to appear that Alastor's misgivings about this young woman were entirely warranted. She had located and taken away his Deluminator without even using a wand! At the same time it was quite intriguing to see such displays of magical prowess. Was it too much to hope for that, if Harry was somehow related to the Stephens woman that his magic would be similarly powerful? Dumbledore regarded her with a newfound respect. As Moody had implied, she was capable of magic well beyond his or any other wizard's abilities, though how that could be Dumbledore had no idea.

"Alright, then, that takes care of you trying to leave with Harry," Samantha said. "Which _wouldn't_ have worked, by the way," she added, matter-of-factly. "Now, are you ready to discuss the situation calmly, like a rational human being, or would you prefer I sent you home right now?"

"I do wish to remain and discuss the situation," he said, respectfully. "It is important I impress upon you the importance of Harry's educational opportunities."

"Let's get comfortable, then," Samantha said. Introductions were made to the other family members present, and soon they were gathered in the living room, with Dumbledore sitting in a plush, comfortable armchair facing the Stephens family members. Harry was sitting in the middle of the sofa with Samantha on one side and the red-headed witch, Endora on the other. Sitting next to Samantha was her husband, Darrin, and next to Endora were the young blonde woman and her husband, with their daughter sitting between them on a love seat. "Now, Mister — sorry, I mean, _Professor_ Dumbledore," Samantha said, her voice making his title sound almost mocking. "Let's hear what you have to say."

Dumbledore launched into his standard "advantages and benefits of attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" speech — the school had the highest educational standards of any magical school in Europe or the Americas; it had a wide-ranging curriculum including Astronomy, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, as well as a secondary set of more advanced courses such as Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and Divination, for those so inclined, all taught by the finest and most highly-qualified teachers available. The school was exceedingly safe: it was isolated from prying Muggle eyes and was near an all-wizarding village, Hogsmeade, which students of year three and above were allowed to visit from time to time, with parental approval, of course. Young Harry's parents, the Headmaster added, had attended Hogwarts, each attaining the Head Boy and Head Girl positions in their seventh years. His parents had already secured a place for Harry in the school, gifting the school with enough gold to provide for his educational expenses shortly after he was born, maintaining a tradition that stretched back many generations in Harry's family, the Potters.

"As you can see," Dumbledore concluded. "It is indeed in Harry's best interests to attend the school of his parents and grandparents. We would be pleased to have him join our other students in making a place for himself this September."

Samantha, who'd been sitting forward listening carefully to Dumbledore's words, sat back for a long moment, then turned to Endora. "Did any of that ring true to you, Mother?"

"Not a word," Endora said pointedly.

"Madam, I assure you it is the truth!" Dumbledore protested.

"Oh, you were telling the _truth_ ," Samantha agreed. "But not the _whole_ truth. You're hiding something about Harry you don't want to tell us."

"Mrs. Stephens," Dumbledore began. "I have no wish to withhold information from you —"

"Which isn't stopping you from doing so," Samantha overrode him. "Mother, if you would —?"

"Gladly, my dear," Endora smiled. She waved a hand contemptuously toward the wizard.

Albus Dumbledore suddenly felt an overwhelming compulsion to speak with complete honesty and sincerity. The sensation was rather unpleasant, given that it went completely against his usual methods of manipulating people with information that was close enough to the truth to be plausible, but actually furthered Dumbledore's own plans and goals. "I—" he hesitated, trying to fight the compulsion, but it was too strong to be denied. "I — need Harry to attend Hogwarts be-because of a prophecy given to me many years ago, a prophecy about a Dark wizard that wishes to rule Britain, and eventually, the world."

"A prophecy?" Darrin spoke up, sounding concerned. "What's all that about?" he asked Sam.

"I don't know," Samantha answered. "Why don't you explain it to us, Professor?"

"The prophecy concerns two people who will contend against one another," Dumbledore said. "I believe those two people will be Harry and a Dark wizard known as Lord Voldemort."

"I never heard of such a thing," Samantha said. "And I've read all of the articles and stories about Harry in your wizarding papers and books. Why hasn't anyone heard of it?"

"What is the prophecy?" Endora demanded. "Tell us!"

Dumbledore found himself speaking the words of the prophecy, words he couldn't hold back no matter how he tried: " _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…_ "

Endora looked at Samantha. "Hmm. A bit wordy, isn't it?"

"That's supposed to be about Harry?" Samantha asked. "Where did you first hear it?"

"It was given to me in early 1980 by Sibyll Trelawney, a witch applying for the position of Divination professor at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said. "I was about to end the interview with her when she spoke those words."

"And you believe them?" Samantha asked.

Dumbledore nodded. "Sibyll at first seemed to have none of the gift of Sight possessed by her great-great-grandmother, Cassandra Trelawney, but when she spoke those words, her entire voice and demeanor were different. I knew that what she was Seeing was a true prophecy."

Samantha turned back to Endora. "Mother, what do you think?"

"Well, I suppose the wand users can sometimes See the future," Endora admitted. "At least, as they perceive it. Their limited understanding of magic makes such utterances more like a prophecy for _them_ , whereas _we_ would simply call them curses."

"A curse?" Dumbledore was confused. "Why would you call it _that_?"

"If one of _us_ had made such a pronouncement," Endora told him. "It _would_ come to pass, unless the wording of the curse allowed for some way to avoid it. In the case of _this_ curse, one of the two people mentioned must kill the other one to survive, thereby ending the curse."

"The 'Dark Lord' was mentioned several times," Samantha mused. "It seems fairly certain that Trelawney was referring to the person calling himself Lord Voldemort at the time."

Dumbledore nodded. "And the other, the one born to those who thrice defined him, who was born as the seventh month dies, is Harry Potter."

"That's _not_ so certain," Endora objected. "Harry is never mentioned by name, even indirectly."

Harry spoke up. "What does it mean when it says, 'born as the seventh month dies?'"

"It is a way of speaking, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "It means at the end of the seventh month. July is the seventh month of the year, the month you were born in."

Harry looked up at Samantha. "I was born on July 31," he said, his eyes wide.

"I remember, sweetheart," Samantha told him, rubbing his back comfortingly. She turned to Dumbledore. "When I was going through back copies of _The Daily Prophet_ , in the list of July births I saw that another boy was born at the end of July as well, on July 30, 1980, the day before Harry was born. In another article it mentioned that his parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, had fought against Lord Voldemort three separate times as well. Their baby, Neville Longbottom, could also be the other person your prophecy spoke of."

Dumbledore swallowed. "He could, yes. But the prophecy also stated, ' _and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.'_ Voldemort chose to attack the Potters, and when he tried to kill Harry his curse rebounded from the magical protection his mother placed on him with her death, destroying the Dark Lord's body and causing that scar on Harry's forehead. It is that scar that marks Harry as Voldemort's equal."

"In what way?" Endora demanded.

Dumbledore did not want to answer, but he was being compelled to tell the truth. "Normally, when a person is hit with the Killing Curse they simply die. The person's soul is instantly separated from the body. But... when Lord Voldemort was struck by his _own_ Killing Curse… his body was overloaded by its own magic, and it exploded. I believe that a…fragment of his soul…was torn loose by that explosion, and while most of his soul floated free, that fragment attached itself to the only living body there — Harry."

Samantha and Endora stared at each other, horrified. "Do you mean to tell us," Endora said, in a tone of cold fury, "that you believe a bit of the soul of the wizard who tried to _murder_ Harry is now bound up _inside_ him?"

"I believe it to be quite possible," Dumbledore admitted, very quietly.

" _And you did nothing to get it out of him_?!" Endora raged, causing lightning and thunder to rumble across the clear blue skies of West Palm Beach, Florida, making many of its inhabitants look upward in surprise and apprehension.

"Mother, calm down!" Samantha urged her. Still, she threw a furious glare at the Hogwarts Headmaster. "Why _didn't_ you try to help Harry?" she demanded.

"There was nothing to be done!" Dumbledore cried, upset at his inability to help Harry. "I am the most powerful wizard in the world, yet even _I_ cannot separate a soul from a body without killing it!"

"Modest, aren't you?" Samantha retorted sarcastically. "Well, I know someone who _can_ get that soul fragment out of him!" She stood and addressed the ceiling. "Calling Dr. Bombay, calling Dr. Bombay! Emergency, come right away!"

There was a flash as the figure of Dr. Bombay appeared in the living room, dressed in old style golfing clothes and holding a driver above his head. He swung just as he appeared, abruptly halting as he realized where he was. He turned to Samantha with an annoyed snort. "Dash it all, Samantha! I was on the last of 18 holes and I was looking at coming in under par!"

"Sorry, Dr. Bombay," Samantha apologized. "I just found out something about Harry that you should check out." Quickly she explained the situation with the soul fragment in Harry's scar.

"My word!" Bombay exclaimed. "Trans-soul migration doesn't come up very often in boys Harry's age! Let me get my kit and we'll have a look." Bombay held out his golf club and it disappeared, replaced by a small black bag. The coffee table obligingly slid aside as Bombay approached Harry. Dumbledore watched, intrigued; Bombay hadn't appeared to even notice the table, much less gesture toward it. Bombay suddenly noticed the old wizard turned toward him with a look of surprise. "Why hello, Dumbledore, old boy! What are _you_ doing here?"

"It's a long story, Doctor," Dumbledore said, in a subdued tone.

"He's here answering questions about Harry going to Hogwarts," Samantha supplied. "Among other things. How do _you_ know Professor Dumbledore, Doctor?"

"Oh, I go to their International Wizard Conferences," Bombay explained. "Mostly for the parties, I admit. And the witches." When he realized everyone in the room was looking at him, Bombay harrumphed, "Yes, well, let's have a look at this soul fragment, shall we?" He took a magnifying glass out of his bag. Giving it a flick, the single lens expanded into three different-sized lenses and Bombay held it over Harry's scar. "Hmm, yes. I see the little blighter in there. Well, we'll have that sorted out in a jiffy."

"You can remove it from his scar?" Dumbledore asked, astonished.

"Of course, old chap," Bombay replied confidently. "Won't take a moment." Reaching into his bag again, he took out what appeared to be a small pair of tweezers. As he brought it closer to Harry's forehead Harry leaned back apprehensively.

"There, there, lad," Bombay gave him a reassuring smile. "This won't hurt a bit, now. Just lean forward, there's a brave boy." Harry leaned forward again, and the doctor placed the tweezers against Harry's scar. Contrary to the doctor's promise the sensation was uncomfortable; on the other hand, it was nothing compared to a punch in the nose from Dudley. Harry set his teeth and endured it as Bombay lifted the tweezers, holding a spark of something glowing a sickly green at its tip.

"There we go!" Bombay beamed, dropping the magnifying glass in his bag and taking out a small vial, which he dropped the soul fragment into and capped it. "Operation successful!" Bombay crowed. He held up the vial so Harry, Samantha and the others could see. Dumbledore stared, astounded by the simplicity of the doctor's actions. No wizard on earth could have accomplished what he had just done.

"I'll dispose of this if you like," Bombay said, hefting the vial casually. "Or I can check if anyone's writing an article on TSM — they might want to use this as a case study." He tossed the vial into the air as he spoke, catching it and tossing it upward again and again.

"I think we'll keep it," Endora said abruptly, holding out her hand. The vial flew into it. "It could come in handy if we ever need to identify this Voldemort character."

"As you wish, Endora." Bombay closed his bag and stood. The bag disappeared, replaced by the golf club Bombay had arrived with. "I'm back to the links, then. Perhaps my threesome will be waiting for me at the 19th hole."

"Don't you mean foursome?" Darrin asked.

"You enjoy golf _your_ way," Bombay retorted. "I'll enjoy it mine. Ha-ha!" He turned to Dumbledore and tipped his golfing cap. "Pip-pip, old boy! See you at the next conference!" Bombay vanished.

"Well, now that's taken care of," Endora said, holding up the vial to stare distastefully at the bit of glowing green Voldemort inside. "I think there are a few other questions our guest needs to answer before we send him on his way."

"May I ask a question first?" Dumbledore inquired, if for no other reason than to forestall the recriminations he was certain he would have to endure.

"What?" Endora replied, caustic indifference in her voice.

"You and Mrs. Stephens have demonstrated amazing abilities," Dumbledore said. "Your Dr. Bombay performed magic no wizard on earth, including myself, could duplicate. Even young Harry has demonstrated ability well beyond that of a first-year Hogwarts student. Yet there is no information about you in the American's records of magical folk residing in this country. You must have encountered other people like us before, but no one seems to have any record or memory of _you_. Why is that?!" Dumbledore's expression was pleading — he desperately wanted to understand how these people had escaped notice for all these centuries.

"Sorry," Samantha said. "That's on a need to know basis, and you don't need to know. When we're done here, you'll find yourself back in your office and you'll remember nothing of what's happened today, not even that there ever was a boy named Harry Potter or that you had anything to do with him."

Dumbledore looked stricken. "But — the Dark Lord —!"

"He was blown to smithereens, remember?" Endora said, waving the vial at him.

"But he is still out there!" Dumbledore exclaimed.

"You must be joking," Samantha shook her head skeptically. "All the magical newspapers I read from those times said he was dead, killed by Harry."

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore agreed, wringing his hands anxiously. "I dared not voice my fears at the time — it would have been disastrous for wizarding Britain to learn that the defeated Dark Lord was still alive." But now it seemed he had no choice but to reveal at least some of what he'd learned in the past ten years. "Voldemort was blasted from his body, but he was not completely destroyed. The vial you hold is proof of that. He was reduced to the merest wraith, a bare shadow of what he was before. He fled Britain for the continent, hiding I believe in Albania or Macedonia. He has had a decade now, to plan, to grow in strength! He will not forget what Harry did to him!"

"Well, that's _his_ problem," Samantha said. "We can protect Harry until he's old enough to deal with this Dark Lord of yours on his own."

"Voldemort's ambitions are not limited to revenge on Harry," Dumbledore argued. "He also wishes to take over wizarding Britain, to use it as a stepping stone to bring first all of Britain, then Europe under his domination. From there he will expand the scope of his power, bringing more and more countries under his rule, until at last he will dominate the entire world!"

"Really?" Samantha said. She looked around at Endora and her other family members, all of whom had solemn expressions on their faces. Then they all burst into laughter. Dumbledore looked at them, dumbfounded. _What_ was so funny about all of this?

" _Really_ , Professor Dumbledore," Samantha said, still smirking. "Something like that could never happen while we're around. We simply won't allow a two-bit magician like this Voldemort character to take over the world, or even a whole country."

"Oh, I don't know…" Endora murmured, a devious expression spreading across her features. "Perhaps a little shakeup would be good for the wand users. Maybe this Voldemort character will snap them out of the complacency they've displayed for the past few millennia."

Dumbledore paled. "Madam," he said, his voice filled with dread. "I assure you that Voldemort is one of the most dangerous wizards the world has ever known. _No one_ is safe while he lives."

Endora rolled her eyes. "Samantha," she said, in a bored tone. "This is simply ridiculous! I think we can dispense with any other questions. It's obvious old Bumblebore here didn't think things through very well when he dropped Harry off at the Durdleys."

"The Dursleys," Dumbledore murmured.

"Whatever," Endora sniffed. "I say we remove his memories of Harry, send him on his way and be done with this farce."

"I think you're right, Mother," Samantha agreed. "Does anyone else have anything to say? If not, we'll send the professor back to Britain and get on with Harry's birthday celebration."

Silence for several seconds. Tabitha and Michael were nodding agreement, and Darrin had sat back, crossing his arms skeptically. Samantha was about to speak again when —

"I think I'd like to go to Hogwarts," Harry suddenly spoke up.

"What?!" Samantha and Endora each cried in complete surprise.

"What?!" Darrin shouted.

"What?!" Michael and Tabitha both exclaimed.

"What!" Electra laughed, because all the big folks had said it first.

Dumbledore allowed himself a very tiny smile beneath his white mustache. Had he managed to arouse the boy's interest in Hogwarts? He remained silent, hoping Harry would have the courage to argue for his request.

"Why would you want to do that, Harry?" Samantha asked, greatly concerned by this turn of events. "You have nothing to prove to anyone here by going to that school."

"I know," Harry agreed. "But that's where my mum and dad went, and I think it would be interesting to see what it's like. I know their magic is nowhere near as good as ours, but Aunt Endora gave me the Book of Magic to study — I'd like to learn how their magic compares with ours." A thought that was silently echoed by Dumbledore as well.

"But you'll be living up in Scotland," Tabitha pointed out. "That's a long way from Westport."

"Well, not _that_ far," Harry said. "I might need some help getting home during the holidays at first. And I can still come and stay with you and Michael and Electra then, can't I?"

"Well, yes, but — but what about your normal school subjects, like math, science, literature, history?" Tabitha asked. She turned to Dumbledore "Does your school teach _those_?"

"No, not as such," Dumbledore admitted. Since Hogwarts was specifically enchanted to keep Muggles away from it, it would be impossible to bring in teachers qualified for those subjects. He didn't want to say that, however, so he tried a positive tack. "However, we do teach Muggle Studies."

"Which is what?" Samantha asked.

"The study of the habits and customs of Muggles," Dumbledore replied. "Specifically, Muggles of the United Kingdom."

"Well, _that's_ not going to be very helpful in the real world," Samantha said dismissively. "Harry, I'm sorry, but I don't think you should attend Hogwarts if it's not going to give you a well-rounded education."

Both Dumbledore and Harry slumped, disappointed. "Please?" Harry pleaded. "We can think of _something_ so I can go, can't we? Please please _please_?!"

Samantha looked concerned, but then her features softened. Harry's pleadings had the same effect on her as hers had on Darrin when she'd begged him to take Harry golfing a week ago.

"Well," she said, trying to think through the problem. "Mother, can you think of anyone we could send along to Hogwarts to tutor Harry in both magic and mortal subjects?"

"I can think of a few," Endora said, smiling deviously. "It may take a tiny bit of persuading, but I'm sure I can get one of them to go along with the idea."

Dumbledore listened to that statement with no small amount of apprehension. _Who_ would they be sending along with Harry? What would that person be like? Would he be as powerful magically as these women seemed to be? But before he could summon up the courage to ask—

"Alright, Professor," Samantha said to the Headmaster. "Harry will be attending your school this fall." She wagged a finger sternly at him. "And I _will_ hold you responsible for his safety!"

"I will ensure Harry's safety at all times, just as I ensure the safety of all my students," Dumbledore promised. Ironically, he really believed what he'd just said. "But," he added carefully, "in order to do it properly I think I should be aware of Harry's true capabilities, should I not?"

"What do you mean?" Endora wanted to know.

"I mean, it would be better for me to retain my memories of this meeting and all that has transpired this day," Dumbledore answered. "I cannot adequately protect Harry unless I know the extent of his magical powers."

Samantha looked thoughtful for several moments. She glanced at her daughter and her mother; Endora shrugged indifferently and Tabitha reluctantly nodded agreement. "You have a point," Samantha told the Headmaster.

Dumbledore managed to hide his smile. It seemed he would not be Obliviated. "Thank you," he said with a small bow. "I will not betray your trust."

"Of course you won't," Endora said, her tone arid. "I shall make sure of _that_." She raised her arms in the air and began to incant.

" _Powers of thought and memory, listen well and hear!  
_ _Seal the memories of this wizard, keep them close and near.  
_ _Let him tell naught of what he has seen and heard today,  
_ _Bind him to silence, lest a terrible price he pay!_ "

A cold sensation passed through Dumbledore as Endora's final words were uttered. He shivered, wondering what she had done to him. Could such a spell, hardly more than a nursery rhyme, force him to silence about the powers of Harry and these witches? He would have to test this when he returned to Hogwarts.

"Good," Samantha said. "Now we should talk about what supplies Harry requires to attend your school, Professor."

"As it happens," Dumbledore replied, "I have brought that information with me, along with Harry's invitation to attend the school. I have it right here." He began to reach in his robe for the letter he had prepared.

Before he could, however, Samantha twitched her nose and a parchment envelope floated out of his robes and into her hand. The front of the envelope read,

 _Mr. H. Potter_  
 _The Smaller Bedroom_  
 _11217 Coconut Tree Circle_  
 _West Palm Beach, Florida_  
 _United States of America_

"Here, Harry," Samantha said, handing it to him. "Let's see what's inside."

Harry stared at the letter for several seconds, feeling the parchment envelope and looking over the green ink writing before finally pulling the bit of red wax on the back off and drawing out the letter inside, which was also written on parchment. The letter had a coat-of-arms across the top with a banner above it reading "HOGWARTS," and the words

* * *

Hogwarts School  
of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
 **Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
** (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Cofed. Of Wizards)

beneath it in strange, ornate writing. Below it was the text of the letter, which read,

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall,  
Deputy Headmistress

* * *

Two more parchment sheets contained information about uniforms, books, and other equipment. There was also a train ticket for the "Hogwarts Express," leaving at 11:00 a.m. from Platform 9¾ on September first. Harry stared it at all for a long time, then looked up at Samantha, a wide smile of happiness on his face. "This should be fun!"

Samantha smiled encouragingly at him, then turned to Dumbledore. "Thank you for coming to see us, Headmaster," she said. "I will bring Harry to the school on September first. What time do you want him there?"

"Normally, students arrive on the Hogwarts Express," Dumbledore explained. "Harry has the ticket. It leaves King's Cross Station in London at 11 a.m. on the first of September."

Samantha raised an eyebrow. "That seems unnecessary, Professor — I can have Harry at Hogwarts whenever you need him to be there."

"I don't mind," Harry spoke up. "It'll give me a chance to meet the other students who are going to Hogwarts."

"That's a good point," Samantha agreed. "Alright, Harry, I'll take you to King's Cross by eleven that morning so you can take the train with the other students. Professor, are you ready to return to your school?"

Dumbledore looked thoroughly subdued by now. "I believe so, Mrs. Stephens," he said, in a quiet tone. He had been quite humbled by the events of this day. But at least Harry would be coming to the school. It was still possible that Voldemort would be defeated!

"Good," Samantha said. "Harry will see you September first. And his tutor will arrive at Hogwarts at that time as well." She reached into her pocket, taking out his Deluminator and releasing it. It floated toward him and Dumbledore plucked it from the air. Before he could activate the Portkey, however, Dumbledore felt himself in darkness, seemingly pushed along by a great wind. A moment later he found himself standing in his office at Hogwarts.

He stood quite still for several moments before murmuring, "Bloody hell."

Striding around his desk and sitting down, Dumbledore pulled out a piece of parchment, ink and quill, determined to write down his experiences in the Stephens' home. But he paused, his quill quivering over the parchment, unable to write. Some kind of compulsion was keeping him from writing down anything he had seen or heard that day.

Dumbledore put down the quill and composed himself, trying to simply say aloud what had happened. But his throat felt suddenly constricted and he could not speak.

He pondered the problem for several seconds before coming upon another possible solution. Taking out the Elder Wand, he walked over to the cabinet where he kept his Pensieve. Opening it, he removed the stone basin and placed it on his desk. Placing the tip of his wand to his temple, he concentrated on the memories of that day. " _Pensextraxi_ ," he murmured, invoking the charm that would draw those memories from his brain, allowing him to place them in his Pensieve, where other wizards could review them. But when he pulled the wand away from his temple there was no wisp of silver thought on the end. As a test, he concentrated on his memories of his meeting with Moody and tried again. Again nothing happened. Finally, he tried to extract his memories of having dinner the previous night, which had nothing to do with Harry. This time he was successful.

Whatever the red-headed woman had done to him, he was now unable to communicate, by written or spoken word, nor even by accessing his memories directly, what had happened to him and what he now knew about those people.

Putting his Pensieve away, Dumbledore sat down again at his desk, contemplating all he had learned that day. The Stephens woman, Samantha, and her mother Endora, were both powerful witches, capable of amazing feats of wandless magic. The revelation that Dr. Bombay also seemed capable of such powerful magic was disturbing. How many others were out there, capable of such magic? There must be more, perhaps many more, but no one in the wizarding world, in Britain or abroad, had ever mentioned them. Dumbledore was now aware of them, but being unable to communicate that knowledge in any way meant he was incapable of warning his fellow wizards of the potential threat to their safety. How many others had something like this happened to? How many had simply had their memories removed rather than being bound up inside them, unable to communicate them? These questions were daunting in the extreme.

At least Harry Potter would be coming to Hogwarts this September first. As would Voldemort; Dumbledore was quite sure of that, though he knew not how the former Dark Lord would attempt to penetrate the castle. The magical protections of Hogwarts would prevent a truly Dark entity such as Voldemort's wraith-form from entering, and if he possessed someone in order to gain entry Dumbledore would be able to detect him using Legilimency.

Professor Quirrell, who was returning to Hogwarts in the fall to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, after a year-long sabbatical during which he had traveled the world in order to gain more first-hand experience, was a likely candidate for that possession, Dumbledore knew. He would examine Quirrell quite thoroughly, if discretely, when they met at the beginning of the school year. If Voldemort was possessing him, Dumbledore would be ready to remove the young professor from the school and hand him over to Ministry Aurors, removing the threat from the school. After that, he could remove the bait he had set to lure Voldemort into Hogwarts, the bait he had placed in a very secure hiding place in a chamber beneath the dungeons of the castle, a place that could only be reached through several obstacles other members of the Hogwarts staff had devised for him as an "experiment" in temptation. When he announced at the start-of-term Feast that a certain room was off-limits to all students, Dumbledore was sure it would cause much curiosity and interest in learning just what had been placed off-limits to them. But if he found _Quirrell_ trying to sneak in there, even if he wasn't possessed, he would know the Defense professor was in league with the Dark Lord. If that happened Quirrell would be taken to the Ministry and subjected to Veritaserum in order to learn where Voldemort had hidden himself. Once captured, the threat to the Wizarding world would be eliminated.

At last smiling softly, Dumbledore stood and made his way to his bedchamber, as it was now quite late and well past his bedtime.


	4. On the Hogwarts Express

.

 **Chapter Four**

 **On The Hogwarts Express**

 _Updated_ 8/21/2015

=ooo=

 **A/N: A quicker update this time, since until last week I hadn't updated since June.**

 **=ooo=**

 _1 September 1991, 10:35 a.m.  
_ _King's Cross Railway Station, London, UK—_

King's Cross Station sat grandly and one might say, majestically, to the north of Big Ben and Westminster Abbey in London. It began operating in 1852 when the first eight platforms were opened to the public. The Minister of Magic at the time, Evangeline Orpington, had a concealed platform built near the station which would be accessible only to witches and wizards. When additional platforms were built for Muggle use in the 1860s and 1870s, the entrance to the platform was concealed in a barrier between them and assigned the number 9¾.

The platform has been in operation ever since, with only a few glitches along the way, such as when witches or wizards have dropped suitcases full of biting spellbooks or newt spleens all over the polished station floor, or else disappeared through the barrier a bit too loudly. Nowadays there are usually a number of Ministry Obliviators, dressed in Muggle clothing, on hand to deal with any inconvenient Muggle memories that may need altering at the start or end of each Hogwarts term.

A woman and young boy suddenly appeared near the entrance to the station, looking up at the signs directing travelers to various destinations in the station. The woman, an attractive blonde, wore a stylish dress, while the boy was dressed in a brown suit and pants, with a white shirt and a red-and-black striped tie. His shoes were polished leather and very comfortable, unlike most of the shoes he'd worn in his life. He was not wearing glasses as he no longer needed them; the pills that Dr. Bombay had prescribed for him a few months ago had seen to that. The woman carried a small suitcase containing the boy's belongings: school robes, assorted pants and shirts for time outside of class, and the items he'd been told to bring for his studies: school books, a telescope, a pewter cauldron and a set of brass scales, and a set of crystal phials. His new wand, an eleven-inch one made of holly, was also in the suitcase, though he didn't really need it to cast any spells. The book his Aunt Endora had given him for his birthday had also been carefully packed away; Harry had been studying it quite eagerly over the past month.

He had packed a number of other items that might come in useful while he was away at Hogwarts. He'd even brought along the Invisibility Cloak Professor Dumbledore had returned to him on his eleventh birthday, though he doubted he would ever need to use it. Turning invisible was easy.

Harry's magical training over the past two months had seen a rapid improvement in his ability to control and direct his witchcraft. As were most young warlocks his age, Harry was now able to turn invisible and intangible at will, levitate himself and other objects with ease, and communicate with other witches and warlocks directly by addressing them through the "ethereal connection" they all shared. He had also learned to teleport, or "pop" short distances, up to a few dozen miles, allowing him to get about easily in Westport, Connecticut, where he'd been living with Tabitha and her husband Michael for the past month. His flying skills were also making good progress, which he enjoyed even more than popping about, but he had to be careful to do that only when he was invisible, so as not to scare the mortal neighbors. He was making good progress with his conjuration and summoning, and was able to perform simple spellwork.

"Well, here we are," Samantha was saying, as Harry looked around at the station, with its walkways and gleaming floors and food courts. She pointed to a nearby bench. "Let's sit down a moment."

"Now, I just want you to be sure this is what you want to do," Samantha said, carefully, once they'd sat down. "If you change your mind, just let one of us know and you can come back home and Tabitha and I will get you enrolled in a school in Westport. The middle school Tabitha went to was very nice."

"I'm fine," Harry smiled. He'd found himself smiling a lot more in the past few months than he ever had in his previous ten years on Privet Drive. "This is the school my parents went to, and I'd like to see what it was like."

"I understand," Samantha nodded. "But don't forget, you're going to be pretty busy now, learning both magic and your regular schoolwork. This school doesn't teach literature or math or science."

Harry scratched his head. "I've wondered about that. Why wouldn't wizards want to teach children both magic and regular subjects? You have to know how to read and do math and such. Electra can already read from my Book of Magic and she's only five years old."

"Well," Samantha explained. "In the wand cultures, children are taught to read and write at home by their parents, or else they are sent to school, like you were. I suppose once you learn that much they figure it's more important to learn magic than classical literature or calculus.

"You won't have to worry about that, however," she assured him. "Your warlock tutor will provide both magic and regular lessons for you to work through. He's a stickler for homework, too," she warned him. "So make sure you get it all done!"

"I will," Harry promised, smiling. Samantha could be so funny sometimes. His warlock tutor was _anything_ but a stickler for homework!

"One more thing, then," Samantha added. "And this is very important, Harry. Most wand wizards aren't aware of our existence, or of the Eternal Realm. Professor Dumbledore knows, but he's under an enchantment that keeps him from telling anyone about us. While you're at Hogwarts you must be careful not to display magic beyond what's expected of you, except when you're alone with your tutor."

Harry looked disappointed. "Aw," he muttered. "I was hoping to show everybody how well I could fly."

"You do fly very well," Samantha beamed. "The school will teach you how to use a broom to fly."

"A broom?" Harry looked dubious. "Why would I need a broom when I can fly on my own?"

"Flying is not as common among the wand-users," Samantha said. "I think very few of them can actually accomplish it without a broom as a focus, just as they use a wand to focus their magic." She wagged a warning finger at him. "Now promise me you won't show off by flying without a broom."

"I promise," Harry said, a bit mutinously. He'd really hoped he could cut loose in a place like Hogwarts and show off his flying ability.

" _And_ ," Samantha added. "Always use your wands when casting spells in front of wizards. Most of them are not very good at wandless magic, either."

"I promise," Harry said again, sighing in frustration.

"Good!" Samantha beamed, ignoring his sigh. "Now, we should find this platform you're supposed to get to… let's see your ticket."

Harry reached in his pocket and pulled out the ticket that had been in the envelope from Hogwarts. It was a golden yellow, with very intricate engraving on it, along with the words

King's Cross Station  
London to Hogsmeade  
Hogwart's Express, 11:00 a.m.  
Platform 9¾

"Well," Samantha said, after a few moments, "I suppose we should go to where Platforms 9 and 10 are and see if we can find the — oh, look!"

A group of people had just walked by them: a plump, red-headed lady with children of various ages trailing behind her, all with red hair. There were four boys and a younger girl holding her mother's hand. Two of the boys were identical twins. All of the boys were pushing trolleys containing black lacquered trunks in conditions ranging from brand new to noticeably dull and worn. On one of the trolleys was a large birdcage containing an _owl_.

"You know what?" Samantha whispered to Harry, pointing to the group. "I think they are on their way to the same place we are."

"The owl gave them away," Harry grinned. "Shall we follow them?"

Samantha nodded, handing Harry back his ticket, which he stuck in his jacket pocket, and they got up and fell into step behind them. The group stopped in front of a barrier and the plump woman turned to her daughter. "Now, what's the number of the platform?" she asked the young redhead.

"Nine-and-three-quarters!" the girl answered, giggling. "Mum, can't I go, please —?"

"No, Ginny, you're not old enough," the woman said. She pointed to one of the boys. "Percy, you go first."

As Harry and Samantha watched, the boy nodded then lined his trolley up facing the barrier between the two platforms, then began pushing it forward, gaining speed. When he reached the barrier he disappeared through it, just as Aunt Clara did (or tried to; sometimes it took her a couple of times to get it right) whenever she left after a visit.

"Well, that answers _that_ question," Samantha said. She smiled at Harry. "That's not so hard, is it?"

"No," Harry agreed. He glanced at the barrier again then back at Samantha. "You want to come see what's on the other side with me?" he asked, hopefully. He wasn't quite ready to say goodbye just yet.

"I think you'll do just fine, Harry," Samantha said, tenderly touching his cheek. A small sniffle escaped her. "Oh, dear," she said, embarrassed. "I thought after sending two children off to school I'd be used to this!" She held up her hand and a handkerchief appeared; she dabbed at her eyes. "Alright, you should be on your way before I start bawling like a first-time mom." She held out her arms and Harry came into them, hugging her tightly, feeling on the verge of tears himself. It had been almost as bad this morning when he left Tabitha and Michael's house. Tabitha had cried then and Harry had sniffled a bit as well. Electra was wailing for him to come back when he and Samantha popped out.

"Tell Tabitha and Aunt Endora I'll be home for Christmas — sooner if I can learn to travel that far on my own," Harry said to Samantha's shoulder.

"I'll tell them," Samantha promised. He let go of her and she handed him the suitcase. "Be good," she said. "Listen to the teachers and to your tutor, and I'll see you again soon."

Harry smiled, wiping away tears threatening to spill out of his eyes, then took a deep breath and turned back to the barrier. The last boy was heading into it, a tall, gangly kid who was already nearly as tall as his mother. He vanished into the bricks as Harry stepped up behind the woman and the little girl. The girl, who was not much shorter than he was, was staring at him. The woman turned around and smiled at him. "Hello, dear," she said, noticing the ticket in his jacket. "First time at Hogwarts?"

Harry nodded. "My son Ron's new, too," she said, then looked at his suitcase. "Is that all you're bringing with you?"

Harry looked down at his suitcase. "Oh, I have all my stuff in here," he said. "It's bigger than it looks."

"I see," the woman nodded knowingly. "Well, would you like to come through with us?" Harry nodded again. The woman linked elbows with him and they began walking briskly toward the barrier.

It would look strange to the average mortal, watching three people about to walk directly into a wall, but not half as strange to a passing guard as what he saw happen next. Instead of slamming into the wall and sprawling on their backsides, as expected, the woman, boy and girl disappeared _into_ the wall! The guard stopped, rubbed his eyes in astonishment, then looked again. Whatever had happened to the three people, they were now gone!

"Did you see that?" he asked a blonde woman who was standing nearby.

"See what?" the woman asked, giving him a quizzical look. "I didn't see anything."

"Those three people…" the guard muttered. "They just — disappeared. Into the wall." He was shaking his head. "I think I'd better go —"

A man in a tailored black suit was suddenly standing in front of the guard, wand in hand. " _Obliviate_!" he said, and the guard shuddered as the spell took effect. "You saw nothing out of the ordinary," the Obliviator said to the guard. "Now go about your business." The guard smiled dreamily, then turned and wandered away. The man then turned to Samantha, pointing his wand at her face. " _Obliviate_!"

Samantha smiled at him. "Sorry," she said. "I'd prefer to keep my memories, if you don't mind. _You_ , on the other hand—" She twitched her nose at him.

The Obliviator's vision went pure white for a moment. When it cleared, he was alone on the platform except for other travelers who brushed by him, giving him curious looks as they passed. He blinked and looked around, realizing he'd been standing there with his wand in his hand. "What just happened?" he muttered to himself. He'd just Obliviated a guard who saw three people pass through the barrier, but what happened after that was a complete blank.

Shaking his head, he shrugged it off and Disillusioned himself again, to resume his watch for Muggles who noticed the goings-on around Platform 9¾.

Samantha reappeared in her kitchen in West Palm Beach, finding Darrin sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee from the pot she'd made before leaving to take Harry to King's Cross on the table in front of him, reading the Saturday morning paper. "Good morning, sweetheart," she said, leaning down to give him a quick kiss.

"Good morning," Darrin said, smiling up at her. "Harry off to that school of his?" he asked.

"Yes," Samantha said, sighing. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with Darrin. "I'm not sure how I feel about Harry going off to that school," she admitted. "I know Tabitha and Michael were looking forward to having Harry with them this fall. Electra is starting preschool this year and I think they're already starting to experience 'empty nest syndrome.'"

Darrin folded his paper and looked at Sam. "Then why did you and Tabitha let Harry go, if you wanted him here?"

"He made a good point," Samantha replied. "Harry's parents did attend Hogwarts, and most of the teachers who taught them are still at the school. It might be a good way for him to feel more connected to them. Those other people, his aunt and uncle, told him that his father didn't work and that he was no good." Samantha frowned. "I'm just so angry at them for the way they treated Harry! The poor boy never felt loved by _anyone_ until he came to live with us!"

Darrin put a tender hand on Samantha's arm. "Well, he's loved now," he pointed out. "By all of us. Even your mother seems to like him a lot, even if he is the 'spitting image' of me," he added jokingly.

Samantha nodded, smiling happily. "You're right, darling. I'll have to remember that whenever I start missing Harry being around here. So," she stood. "Are you ready for breakfast yet?"  
Darin grinned at her. "I'm ready for anything you have in mind, sweetheart."

"Oh?" Samantha giggled, understanding. "Well, maybe we can have breakfast in a little while, then." She moved toward him.

 **=ooo=**

 _Platform 9¾, 10:47 a.m.—_

The other side of the barrier contained a long platform with a large, ornately carved sign saying "Hogwarts Express, 11:00 a.m." on it. Harry glanced behind him, finding a tall, wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words "Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters" on it. The platform was filled with people, trolleys loaded with trunks and cages of hooting owls. On the platform itself were cats of every stripe and color, wandering around between people's legs and eyeing the owls with varying degrees of playfulness (or perhaps darker intent). Next to the platform was the reddest, most elaborately decorated steam engine Harry had ever seen. Smoke from the engine drifted above the crowds of people on the platform. Behind the engine and coal car were a dozen or so carriages.

"Have a safe trip, dear," the plump woman said cheerfully to him, releasing his arm, and she and her daughter went to see her sons off. Looking at the carriages right behind the engine, Harry saw they were already mostly full. He began walking down the platform to the rear of the train, hoping to find an empty compartment he could settle down in and practice some magic without being interrupted. Samantha had told him not to do his magic in front of the wand users, but she hadn't said he couldn't practice _at all_ on the train.

He passed a round-faced boy who was saying to an older woman wearing — Harry had to glance at her again to be sure — a hat with what looked like a vulture sitting on it! "Gran, I've lost my toad again."

"Oh, Neville," the old woman sighed. _Be on the lookout for a toad_ , he reminded himself. A bit further down, a boy in dreadlocks had a small crowd of boys and girls surrounding him, excited by something he had inside a box.

"Come on, Lee, let's have a look," two red-headed boys were saying. Harry recognized them as being with the plump woman he'd come through the barrier with. The boy named Lee opened the box he was holding and there were shrieks and yells as something poked a black, hairy leg out of the box. Not really interested, Harry continued toward the rear of the train. He'd seen more than his share of spiders during his time in the cupboard under the stairs.

Harry had almost come to the end of the train before the crowds thinned out. He stood there for a minute, looking at the crowds of people between him and the front of the train. He hadn't expected there to be this many students. It seemed like there were so many of them that all of them wouldn't be able to fit on the train, but if it was a _magic train_ that would be silly, of course. His suitcase was small but it had more than enough room for all his things: his Book of Magic, the one Endora had given him on his birthday was in there, and a bicycle that Michael had given him as an "after-birthday" present, something more enjoyable than the coat and jacket he and Tabitha had given Harry previously. He also had a transistor radio that Uncle Arthur had given him, one that could pick up stations from anywhere in the world. In fact just about everything he owned in the world was in his suitcase right now.

"Oy," a voice interrupted his thoughts, and Harry turned to see the two red-headed twins approaching him. "How's it going?" one asked, reaching out a hand for Harry to shake. "I'm Fred," the boy said, then pointed to his twin. "And this is George."

"Are you sure?" the other twin asked. "I thought _I_ was Fred."

"Well, _one_ of us is Fred, anyway," the first boy shrugged. "Our mum wanted us to ask you a question. Are you him?" The boy pointed at Harry's forehead.

"Him who?" Harry asked.

"Course he is!" the other boy pointed to Harry's forehead as well. "Aren't you?"

"Aren't I who?" Harry tried again.

"Harry Potter!" both twins said at the same time.

"Oh. _Him_ ," Harry said. "I mean, yes, I'm him," he nodded.

"Ginny will be furious Mum didn't tell her," Fred (or George, Harry wasn't sure yet who was who) said, jutting a thumb behind him. "She's been wanting to meet you for years," he added confidentially to Harry.

"Why?" Harry asked, confused. "What'd _I_ do?"

"What d'you mean?" the other twin laughed. "You only killed You-Know-Who all by yourself! Don't you remember?"

"Actually, I don't," Harry shrugged. "I was only a year old."

"Only a year old, he says!" one twin snorted. "And he takes out the most powerful Dark wizard alive! Remind me not to make you mad at me, mate!"

"Hey, who's this?" Another red-head, the younger brother, came up dragging his trolley behind him.

"Who's this, you ask? Why, ickle Ronnie, this young lad is only the Boy-Who-Lived himself!"

"Get out!" Ronnie (at least Harry knew _his_ name) stared at Harry in frank amazement. "Are you really?"

But before Harry could answer a whistle blew and someone shouted "All aboard!"

"Come on, Ron, grab your trunk," one of the twins said to his younger brother. Together they walked it up the steps into the last carriage, then into an empty compartment, where they wrestled it onto an overhead shelf. "Mind it doesn't fall on your head," the twin warned him. "Mum can't afford to buy you another one if you break it."

"Very funny," Ron grumbled. "She's coming this way, with Ginny," he said, looking out the window.

"Wait'll we tell her who we met," the twins said, and left the compartment.

Harry sat down across from Ron, who kept his eyes looking out toward the platform, though he kept sneaking looks at Harry every few seconds.

"Where's Percy?" one of the twins asked, when they stopped outside near the window Harry and Ron were looking out of.

"He's up front with the other prefects," his mother said, smiling.

"Oh, is Percy a _prefect_?" the other twin asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Of course he is!" his mother retorted. "You know that!"

"Yes, I do seem to recall Percy saying something about it," one twin stated. "Once—"

"Or twice —" the other added —

"A minute —" the first one continued —

"All summer!" they chorused.

"Isn't it wonderful?" their mother smiled dreamily. "My son, the prefect!"

"Mum," one of the twins pointed out dryly. "Bill was a prefect."

"So was Charlie," the other twin said. "It's no big deal."

The mother's face turned red. "Now I know what to say if _you two_ become prefects!" she told them. "No big deal, indeed!" she huffed.

"I dunno, Mum," one twin shook his head. "That prefect stuff is going to cut into our heavy class schedule." The twins looked at each other and smiled.

"All right, then," the mother said wearily. A whistle blew and the train began to move forward slowly. "Hurry up and get on the train, it's about to leave without you!"

Both twins hurriedly jumped on the steps of the last compartment. "Oh, by the way," one twin said. "That boy you came through the barrier with — he _was_ Harry Potter."

"Oh, Mum!" the little girl cried. "I want to meet him!" She started for the carriage.

"It's too late for that, Ginny," the mother said, pulling her back. "You'll see him at the end of the year, when everyone comes back from school."

"But _Mum_ —!"

Harry watched as the girl stared at the compartment, her expression stricken, as if she couldn't possibly wait that long to meet Harry Potter. Seeing her made Harry think about Electra crying as he left that morning; he wouldn't see her again until at least Christmas. It made him a bit homesick already. He leaned closer to the window so the girl could see him, waving at her. The mother pointed at him and the girl beamed happily and waved at him, running alongside the carriage as the train picked up speed. She finally ran out of platform and stopped, still waving, until the train went around a curve and the platform was lost from sight.

"Are you _really_ Harry Potter?" Ron asked suddenly. Harry nodded.

"Oh. Blimey!" Ron looked impressed. "I thought maybe Fred and George were pulling my leg. So have you really got—" he hesitated, pointing at Harry's forehead. Harry reached up and pulled back his hair, showing his lightning scar.

Ron stared at it. "Wicked!" he breathed. "So that's where You-Know-Who, er —"

Harry let his hair fall back. "I don't remember it," he said. He knew it must've happened, because Dr. Bombay removed a bit of Voldemort from the scar, but that wasn't something he was going to tell anyone at school!

"Ginny — my sister — has been crazy to meet you for years," Ron said to him. "I'm probably gonna get a bunch of letters from her asking for your autograph." He shrugged apologetically. "I hope that's not going be a bother..."

Harry shook his head, though why anyone would want his autograph because of something that happened a decade ago, something that he couldn't even remember, was puzzling to him. Ron was looking out the window now, and Harry studied him. So this was a wizard about his own age. Harry had been learning witchcraft for about two months now, but this boy had probably been around wand magic all of his life. "Are all of your family wizards?" he asked, curiously.

Ron looked faintly surprised to be asked that. "Er — yeah, I think so," he nodded. "Um, Mum's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him."

"Why not?" Harry asked. "What's wrong with being an accountant?"

"Nothing, I guess," Ron shrugged again. "But he can't do any magic."

"Oh," Harry said. "So what about you? You can probably do loads of magic already, right?"

Ron made sort of a vague hand-waving gesture, but instead of answering the question he said, "I heard you went to live with Muggles. At least that was what everyone said. What were they like?"

Harry shook his head. "Not very nice. Well, some are, but not the ones _I_ was living with. But I'm not living with them anymore." He thought about Dudley and his friends. "I wish I'd had three brothers like you and Fred and George."

"Five," Ron corrected. But his expression remained glum. "Five _older_ brothers. Bill's the oldest — he was Head Boy. Charlie came next, and he was Captain of the Quidditch team. Did you see Percy?"

Harry nodded. "On the other side of the barrier. He went through first."

"Right. Well, he was made a prefect this year. Fred and George are on the Quidditch team, and they mess around a lot, but they get good grades and everyone likes them. So you could say I've got a lot to live up to," he muttered.

"Won't your brothers help you in school?" Harry asked. Both of the twins had seemed like perfectly likeable guys to him. "I thought that's what brothers were supposed to do."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Maybe," he shrugged. "They might help me, if I ask 'em to. But they've got loads of other things to do at school."

"Oh," Harry nodded. "So, maybe, if you or I need help, we could help one another?" he suggested. Like actually having a friend, he thought to himself.

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Why would _you_ need help? You're the Boy-Who-Lived!"

"But I've never lived with wizards," Harry said. "Until a couple of months ago I was living with my aunt, uncle and cousin, and all of them _hated_ magic. And I didn't even know I was a warlock—" Ron gave him an odd look as he said the word "— until my cousin Samantha came and took me away from them. She and my Aunt Endora have been teaching me magic since then. They're the ones who told me about what happened with me and Voldemort."

Ron gasped. "What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"You said his name!" Ron whispered, looking both horrified and awestruck. "I never thought _you'd_ be able to say his name!"

"It's just a name," Harry shrugged. "I don't know what the big deal is."

" _Nobody_ says his name," Ron explained. "Everyone's afraid that if you say his name, he'll hear and take notice of you. And you don't want _that_."

"Oh," Harry nodded. Did that work the same for wizards as it did with warlocks? But you actually had to try to communicate with the other witch or warlock before they would hear you. "I suppose not," he agreed. "But that's what I mean," he went on. "I've got loads to learn about wizards and how everything works. That's why I wanted to come to Hogwarts and see how, um, magic —" he'd almost said _wand magic_ "— is done. I bet I'm the only person there who won't know anything about it."

"Nah," Ron disagreed. "You won't be. Loads of people come from Muggle families, they all learn quick enough, Fred told me."

The compartment door opened and a man in a uniform asked for their Hogwarts tickets. Harry and Ron handed them over and the man nodded and left.

"Alright, then," Harry resumed the conversation. "You said Fred and George were on the Quidditch team. So what's Quidditch about, anyway?"

Ron stared, his mouth open. He finally shut it and said, "You never heard of _Quidditch_? It's only the best sport in the entire world!" With that he launched into an explanation about the wizarding sport, describing the field, the balls, the positions on the team and what they did, and any and every aspect of the game he could think of for the next two hours, until the door to their compartment slid back and a plump, middle-aged-looking woman leaned in and smiled at them.

"Anything from the cart, dears?" she asked in a pleasant tone.

Curious, Harry stood. "Want to see what's on the cart?" he asked Ron.

Ron's ears had turned pink. "I've got sandwiches," he mumbled, shaking his head. Harry went out into the corridor.

Harry had eaten breakfast a few hours earlier, before he and Samantha left Westport for London. He wasn't very hungry yet, but he was curious to see what kind of food was on the cart.

The cart was a veritable treasure trove of candies, pasties and other sugary delights for a young boy's sweet tooth. He didn't see anything he recognized — there were no Yorkies, Crunchies, Double Deckers, or Toffee Crisps, none of the candy bars he'd watched Dudley stuff himself stupid with over the years.

What _was_ on the cart were candies named Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and even more candies and pasties, none of which Harry had ever seen in his life. "I think," he said to the smiling woman. "I'd like to have three — no, _six_ of everything. Oh, let's make it eight."

"Of course, dear." If the woman was surprised by his request she said nothing else. Harry suspected that if Samantha had been with him she wouldn't have allowed him to buy nearly as much as he wanted. But Samantha _wasn't_ here, was she? Soon Harry was holding a cardboard box filled with the items he'd wanted, and the woman was counting up his total on her fingers.

"Let's see," she said, thinking carefully. "That comes to thirteen Sickles and ten."

When they had gone to London to get his school supplies, Samantha explained to him that wand wizard money was different than British or American money. Wizards didn't use paper money, they used gold, silver and bronze coins called Galleons, Sickles and Knuts. There were 29 Knuts to a Sickle and 17 Sickles to a Galleon. Based on this, Harry wondered why wizards weren't more concerned with understanding math. Wizard money was certainly a lot more complicated than 100 pennies to a dollar or a pound!

He reached into his pants pocket and took out a handful of the oddly shaped coins. Knuts were pentagons, Sickles were hexagons, and Galleons were octagons. He counted out 13 Sickles and 10 Knuts and handed them to the cart lady. "Thank you, dear," she smiled at him. "Mind you don't try to eat too much at once." She pushed the cart further along the carriage.

Back in the compartment, Harry set the box down next to him. Ron goggled at all of the candy and pasties inside it. There was a lumpy brown bag open next to him. He was still holding a sandwich wrapped in wax paper in his hand. "Bit hungry, were you?" he asked Harry.

"I bought some for you, too," Harry smiled. "Go on, have some."

Ron looked hopeful, but— "My mum made me these," he protested weakly, holding up the sandwich in his hand.

"I'll trade you for a pumpkin pasty," Harry said, offering him one. "Go on."

Ron smiled and handed over his sandwich. "It's corned beef, by the way," he mentioned. "Mum always forgets I don't like corned beef."

"I don't either, much," Harry agreed. He tossed the sandwich unopened to one side and picked up another pumpkin pasty. For the next hour or so they sampled their way through the various pasties and cakes from Harry's cardboard box. Everything was very good, Harry decided. Ron thought so, too, as he was easily keeping pace with Harry, even though he was still enthusiastically explaining how national Quidditch leagues worked and what the current standings were.

Harry finally came to something he was a bit apprehensive about. "What are these?" he asked, holding up a Chocolate Frog. "They're not _really_ frogs inside, are they?"

Ron laughed. "No, but they come with cards." He leaned forward. "Let's see what the card is — I'm missing Agrippa."

Harry wanted to ask who Agrippa was, but he simply tore open the package and passed the card to Ron, then popped the Chocolate Frog into his mouth. It was very good, if a bit strange. It moved like a real frog! A croaking sound was coming from inside his mouth. He was almost afraid to bite into it, but he finally did, and was rewarded with a milky, chocolatey taste filling his mouth. "That's pretty good," he mumbled as he chewed on the Frog.

Ron was staring at the card. "This is Dumbledore," he muttered, holding it up. "I've got about a dozen of him." He handed the card back to Harry. "Can I have one? I might get Agrippa. Thanks," he said as Harry handed him a Chocolate Frog.

Harry stared at his card. This was the wizard that had come to Samantha's house a month ago, though on this card he was smiling a lot more. As Harry watched, the picture of Dumbledore suddenly bowed slightly to him.

"That's weird!" Harry said. "He moved!"

Ron looked up from his card. " _Course_ he moved. D'you expect him to just _stand_ there?"

"My aunt and uncle's pictures don't move," Harry shook his head.

"Weird!" Ron said. "Ours do all the time!"

They opened up the rest of the Chocolate Frogs and ate them, and Harry soon had cards with Dumbledore, Morgana, Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Nicholas Flamel, Cliodna and Merlin. Unfortunately there was no Agrippa for Ron.

Harry next turned to a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. "You want to be careful with those," Ron warned him. "When they say every flavor they mean _every flavor_! You can get beans that taste like spinach, or tripe or even bogeys — George reckons he had a bogey-flavored one once."

They spent some time going through the beans, picking out different colors and trying them. Harry got ones that tasted like toast, coconut, baked beans, strawberries, curry, grass, coffee and sardines. He even tried a gray one Ron wouldn't touch, which turned out to be pepper.

There was a knock on the compartment door, and the round-faced boy Harry had seen on the platform slid it aside and stepped inside. He looked on the verge of tears. "Sorry," he said. "But have you seen a toad at all?"

Harry and Ron both shook their heads. "I can't find him!" the boy wailed. "He keeps getting away from me!"

Harry felt bad for the boy. If he saw that that toad he'd have a thing or two to tell it, that was for sure! "He'll turn up," Harry said encouragingly.

"I hope so," the boy said miserably. "He was a gift from my great uncle Algie. Well, if you see him…" turning, the boy wandered away.

Harry and Ron looked at one another. "Dunno why he's so bothered," Ron said confidentially. "If I'd brought a toad I'd lose it as quick as I could! But mind you, I brought Scabbers so I can't complain."

"Who's Scabbers?" Harry asked, interested.

"My rat," Ron said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which appeared to be asleep. "He was Percy's rat, but Percy got an owl from my dad for making prefect. They couldn't aff— er, they decided to give Scabbers to me," he muttered. He put the rat on his lap where it lay there softly snoring. Ron was giving Scabbers an annoyed look.

"He might've died and you wouldn't know the difference," Ron said, irritated. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday, to make him more interesting, but it didn't work."

"Really?" Harry asked, keen to see a wizard cast a spell. "Would you show me?"

Ron shrugged and stood up, opening his trunk and rummaging through it until he pulled out a very beat-up looking wand. It was faded and chipped in places, and something thin and white was poking out of the tip. "It was my brother Charlie's wand," Ron explained. "Anyway—" He raised the wand to begin the spell, but the compartment door slid open again at that moment.

Instead of the round-faced boy this time, a girl with bushy brown hair was standing there. She was already wearing her Hogwarts robes. She looked at the two of them. "Have either of you seen a toad? Neville's lost his." She sounded kind of bossy, Harry thought, and her two front teeth were a bit too large, making her look a little horse-faced, though he would never be so rude as to mention such a thing. Harry smiled pleasantly at her.

"We already told him we haven't seen it," Ron said, annoyed at being interrupted, but the girl was staring at the wand in his hand.

"Were you about to do magic?" she asked. "Well, go on, let's see it, then." She sat down on the bench next to Harry.

Ron deflated a bit. "I already tried this yesterday," he said quickly. "It didn't work then, either." The girl raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. "Well, alright, then."

Ron cleared his throat and pointed the wand at Scabbers.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow." He waved the wand, but nothing happened to Scabbers.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" the girl asked doubtfully. "If it is it's not a very good one. I've tried several simple spells so far and they all worked for me," she said smugly. "Both of my parents are dentists so I'm the first in my family with magic, it was such a surprise when I got the letter. I was ever so pleased, of course — Hogwarts is the best school of magic there is, you know. I've learned all of our course books by heart, of course, I just hope that will be enough to get started. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

She had said all of this very fast. Ron looked rather befuddled, but he spoke before Harry did. "I'm Ron Weasley," he said, giving her an odd stare.

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said. The girl turned to him, her eyes wide.

"Are you really?" she asked, sounding surprised. "Well, I know all about you, of course. I read about you in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_!"

"You _read_ about me?" Harry was surprised to hear that. People had _written_ stuff about him?

"Of course!" the girl, Hermione, said excitedly. "Goodness, if it was me they'd written about I'd have read everything I could!" She leaned forward. "Do you know which House you'll be in? I've been asking other students, and it sounds like I should be in Ravenclaw. Though Gryffindor would be good as well. I heard Professor Dumbledore was in Gryffindor, but everyone says the smartest people are in Ravenclaw. Though Professor Dumbledore is supposed to be the smartest wizard in the world, and _he_ was in Gryffindor." Once again, all that had been said very fast.

She abruptly stood. "Well, I better go look for Neville's toad." She pointed out the window. "You may want to change into your robes, it won't be long before we're there." And she turned and left.

Ron was shaking his head. "Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's _not_ ," he said fervently. He jammed his wand into his pocket; even though the wand was bigger it disappeared completely. "Stupid spell," he muttered. "George probably knew it was a dud."

It was a simple spell, Harry silently agreed, but it would have worked if _he_ cast it on the rat. He couldn't tell Ron that, though, so instead he asked, "What houses are your brothers in?"

"Gryffindor," Ron said. "We're all in Gryffindor. Mum and Dad were, too. I don't know what they'll say if I don't get in. They'll probably disown me," he added, gloomily. "With my luck I'll probably end up in Slytherin."

"What's wrong with Slytherin?" Harry wanted to know.

Ron looked at him in alarm. "Oh, it's the _worst_! All the worst sorts of people are in Slytherin! I told you they're our worst rivals in Quidditch, and all the worst Dark wizards have been in Slytherin!"

Ron was getting pretty worked up for something Harry couldn't see mattered very much. He tried to divert his attention to another topic. For instance, what did wizards do once they left school? "So about your other brothers — what have they been doing since they left Hogwarts?"

Ron went for it. "Charlie's in Romania studying dragons," he said. "And Bill's in Africa doing work for Gringotts."

"Gringotts is the wizarding bank," Harry said. They had visited it on their trip to Diagon Alley so Samantha could convert money from American dollars to Galleons. "Is he a banker, then?"

Ron giggled. "Oh, no, Bill would strangle you if you asked him that! He's a Cursebreaker for the goblins who run the bank."

"What's a Cursebreaker?"

Ron smirked. "Well, he breaks curses, of course!" When Harry raised an eyebrow at that he laughed and added, "When the goblins find treasure, sometimes it's been cursed to protect it. Bill figures out ways to remove the curse so they can claim the treasure. Say, did you hear what happened at Gringotts — but I guess you wouldn't, living with Muggles — someone tried to rob a high-security vault a couple of months ago."

"I never heard about it," Harry said. "What happened to them?"

"They never caught them," Ron shrugged. "But the goblins say nothing was taken, so I don't know what everyone was so excited about. Course, everyone gets scared when things like this happen — they think You-Know-Who could be behind it.

"Isn't he supposed to be dead, though?" Harry asked. "I thought you said I killed him."

"That's what everyone says," Ron shrugged. "But if _you_ don't know what happened, I sure don't!"

Harry changed tack. "So what's your favorite Quidditch team at school?" he asked.

"Gryffindor, of course," Ron said, like that should have been obvious. "I also support the Chudley Cannons," he added. "I figure they'll come round any year now." It turned out the Cannons had won the League cup 21 times, the last time in 1892. Ron was about to explain why he thought the Cannons were due for another League cup when the compartment door slid open a third time. But it wasn't Neville the toadless boy or bushy-haired Hermione Granger this time.

Three boys entered the compartment, a pale boy with sharp features and blond-white hair, followed by two _much_ larger boys with dull, mean features.

"I heard," the blond boy said, "that Harry Potter is in this compartment." He looked at Ron. "I don't need to ask who _you_ are, with that red hair and those clothes. My father told me all the Weasleys have a lot of red hair but not much money."

"Who's your father?" Ron asked, scowling as if he already knew the answer.

"Lucius Malfoy," the boy said, proudly. "I'm Draco Malfoy." He waved a hand carelessly behind him. "And this is Crabbe and Goyle," he added. He turned back to Harry. "So, are you Harry Potter?"

"I'm him," Harry nodded. He didn't much care for the arrogant way Malfoy had walked into the compartment. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

"One more thing," Malfoy said. He glanced at Ron. "You're going to find out that some wizarding families are much better than other. The really important ones always sort into Slytherin, for example. That's where Crabbe, Goyle and I will be. You don't want to make friends with the wrong sort." Again his eyes flicked momentarily toward Ron. Malfoy tapped a finger against his chest. "I can help you with that. Friends?" He extended a hand.

To Ron's horror Harry extended a hand and they shook. "Friends," Harry said. He didn't let go of Draco's hand, however, but took a step closer to him. "But don't try to tell me who I can or can't be friends with, Malfoy. Deal?"

Malfoy took a step back, pulling his hand free. "I'd be a bit careful if I were you, Potter," he said, slowly. "You should be more polite, otherwise you could go the way of your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either."

"That sounds like a threat," Harry said coldly. This Malfoy kid had definitely rubbed him the wrong way.

Malfoy smirked. "It's more like a promise. I'm not someone you want as an enemy, Potter." He spied the box of sweets on the seat. "Tell you what," he drawled. "How about you give us your candy as a peace offering, and we'll call it even."

"No deal," Harry said flatly. At this point he wouldn't give Malfoy the time of day.

"But I _insist_ ," Malfoy sneered. "It's the least you can do for being so rude to my friends and me…" he nodded to Goyle, who leaned over to grab the box.

Harry was going to let the huge kid (who was even bigger than Dudley!) grab the box before he stopped him, but Goyle suddenly let out a piercing yell and jumped back.

Attached to his hand was a squeaking, squealing Scabbers, who had sunk his teeth into one of Goyle's knuckles. Malfoy and Crabbe backed away as Goyle howled, swinging Scabbers round and round, until he finally flew off and hit the window, falling to the bench below. Goyle and the other boys retreated as Ron and Harry laughed at them.

Ron went over to examine him. "I think he's knocked out," he said, picking him up and looking him over carefully. "No, he — I don't believe it! He's gone back to sleep?!" The rat was once again softly snoring in Ron's hands.

"What's been going on in here?" Hermione Granger was back, staring at the sweets strewn about the compartment. "Have you two been fighting?"

"Scabbers has been fighting," Ron frowned at her. "Some kid named Malfoy tried to take our candy and Scabbers stopped him."

"Well, you'd better hurry up and put your robes on," Hermione warned them. "I've asked the conductor and he says we're nearly there. You don't want to get into trouble your first day, do you?"

"Alright, then," Ron said curtly. "We'll change. Do you mind leaving?"

"Fine," Hermione sniffed. She pointed at Ron's face. "By the way, do you know you've got dirt on your nose?" Before Ron could answer she turned and flounced away.

"You'll get in trouble your first day," Ron mimicked her in a falsetto voice. "Blimey! She's bossy, isn't she?" he said to Harry.

"You do have something on your nose," Harry pointed out. "I didn't want to say before—"

Ron sighed and rubbed the tip of his nose vigorously. The spot disappeared. Harry gave him a thumb's up. Looking out the window, they could see the sky was turning darker. They pulled off their jackets and slipped on their Hogwarts robes. Ron threw his jacket into his trunk, while Harry opened his suitcase, hung his coat on a hanger and put it back inside the suitcase, shutting it.

Ron looked up at his trunk in the overhead. "It's not going to be easy carrying this thing," he said, worriedly. "Me and Fred barely got it onto the train."

At that moment a voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

"Whew!" Ron breathed, relieved. "That's sorted, then!" Together they gathered up the sweets that had scattered onto the floor, stuffing them into their pockets, then waited nervously as the train squealed to a long, slow halt.

Harry and Ron jumped off the carriage onto a small, dark platform. Other students from other carriages were milling around as well, waiting to be told what to do. The platform suddenly shuddered, and Harry turned to see —

A giant.

He was the biggest man Harry had ever seen. He looked simply too large to be allowed, but there he was. Holding a lantern above his head, Harry could see his face was framed in wild, black hair and a beard in which his black eyes were barely visible, but those eyes were crinkled in a smile. "First years!" he was shouting. "First years with me!" His eyes landed on Harry. "Ah! There yeh are, Harry! Know that face anywhere, yer the spittin' image of your dad! Dumbledore tol' me you'd be coming this year! Any more first years? Follow old Hagrid now!"

The first years fell in behind the giant, and he led them down a steep, narrow path. No one said much of anything, but Neville, the round faced boy who kept losing his toad, sniffled once or twice.

"Watch this," the giant, who'd called himself Hagrid, was saying. "Enny moment now yeh'll get yer first look at Hogwarts." They came around a bend and there was a collective "Ooooh!" from the front of the group.

They had come up to the edge of a great, black lake. Across the still, black waters, perched atop a high plateau, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers. Floating along the shore were a dozen or more boats. Hagrid pointed to them, saying, "Everyone in! No more'n four to a boat, mind you!"

Harry and Ron jumped into one. A moment later they were joined by Neville and Hermione. Neville was holding his toad in his hands. Harry smiled at them, but Ron rolled his eyes as Hermione stepped in.

"Is everybody inna boat?" Hagrid shouted. After everyone had answered yes, Hagrid raised one hand high in the air. "All right, then — FORWARD!"

The boats pulled away from shore. Neville gasped, frightened, but kept a tight hold on the toad in his hands. Harry and Ron looked at one another, grinning. This was exciting! Hermione was busily examining every part of the boat, apparently looking for what was propelling them forward.

Well, Harry thought to himself. He hadn't had a chance to practice much magic on his trip here, but he'd made a friend at least. Ron seemed like a nice fellow, if a bit gloomy about his older brothers. He also didn't seem too adept at magic, so it was just as well Harry hadn't done anything in front of him. One of the reasons he'd wanted to come here was to understand the differences between warlock magic and wand magic. Well, Hermione had said she'd performed spells successfully… Perhaps if he'd asked her to show him something — but he'd see wand magic soon enough, he was sure.

The trip across the lake didn't take long. Everyone was staring up at the castle overhead as they neared the cliff it stood upon. Ahead Harry could see a curtain of ivy vines hanging down into the water. The boats were heading right for it and as they neared them the vines began slowly retracting, revealing an entrance.

"Heads down," Hagrid shouted, and everyone bent forward as the boats carried them beneath the ivy and into a dark tunnel, lit only by the lantern Hagrid was holding, until they reached an underground harbor, where the boats bumped up against the shore. Everyone clambered out onto the rocky shore as Hagrid came around, checking the boats to make sure no one had fallen in or left something behind.

Harry was the last out of his boat, and Hagrid smiled at him as he stepped over to inspect the boat. "What's this?" he suddenly said, reaching into the boat and pulling out Neville's toad.

"That's Trevor," Harry told him. "He belongs to Neville."

"Oy! Neville!" Hagrid shouted, holding up Trevor. "Is this toad yours?"

Neville came running back. "Trevor!" He took the toad happily from Hagrid's huge hand.

Hagrid led them up a narrow passageway that seemed to double back and forth until they came out at last onto smooth, damp grass in the castle's shadow.

"Almos' there," Hagrid said. "Everybody wit' me? You there, still got your toad?" Neville nodded happily, holding up Trevor.

They walked around a corner of the castle and along its tall walls until they came to a great stone staircase that took them up to a pair of huge, oaken doors. "All right, here we are. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" Hagrid said, raising his fist and knocking on the door three times. "Now," he told all the first years gathered around him. "You mind the Deputy Headmistress an' do everything she tells you, hear?" Nobody said anything.

The door swung open. A tall, iron-haired witch stood there in a pointed hat and emerald green robes. She had a very stern face and Harry immediately thought of Aunt Hagatha, though Hagatha was rather more portly than this witch was. Hagatha had a school, too, and she'd tried to talk Samantha and Tabitha into sending Harry there, but Harry had held out for Hogwarts.

"Here are the first years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid said to her.

"Thank you, Hagrid," the witch nodded. "I will take them from here."

The doors swung open and she led the students inside. The room they walked into was so large Harry figured you could have fit the Dursleys' entire house into it. The walls were lit with flaming torches, and the ceiling was so high you couldn't even make it out. A magnificent marble staircase faced them across the room, leading to the upper floors.

On the right were another pair of oak doors, and behind them Harry could hear hundreds of voices all talking at the same time. That must be where the rest of the school had gone, but Professor McGonagall led them in the other direction, to a chamber on the left side. They all crowded into the room, standing uncomfortably close to one another.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall addressed them. "The start-of-term feast will begin shortly, but before you can take your seats in the Great Hall you will be sorted into your houses.

"The Sorting is very important because, while you are here, your house will be like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house's common room.

"The four houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin," McGonagall continued. "Each house has its own noble history, and each house has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, participation in class and other good deeds will earn you house points. But," she added sternly, "breaking any of our rules will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope you will become a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

The professor moved toward the door of the chamber, pausing for a moment as she opened it. "The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes, in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all take a moment to smarten yourself up as much as you can while you are waiting."

The witch's eyes lingered for a moment on Harry's hair. Harry nervously reached up and tried to smooth it out. "I shall return when we are ready for you," McGonagall said. "Please wait quietly." She turned and left the chamber.

"I don't know if I can make myself any smarter in just a few minutes," someone muttered.

"That's not what she meant, dumbass," someone else retorted. "She meant clean yourself up."

"If they intend to test us on spells," a familiar voice was saying. Harry recognized it as Hermione Granger's. "I've learned all of the ones in our first year books."

"It's not going to be spells," another girl said. "My brother said we have to wrestle the giant who brought us to the castle."

Neville, who was standing near Harry, went pale. Harry nudged Ron. "Is that true?" he asked him. "Do we have to wrestle that Hagrid bloke?"

Ron shrugged, looking nervous. "Fred told me we'd have to wrestle a troll. I don't think wrestling Hagrid's going to be any easier, though."

There was a sudden scream behind them, Harry jumped and spun around. Above their heads a group of people had _floated into the room_. They were all pearly-white and translucent. They ignored the students below them, seemingly in the middle of an argument with one another.

One who looked like a fat little monk was saying, "Forgive and forget, I say! We ought to give him a second chance."

"My dear Friar," the other replied, a man wearing a ruff and tights. "Haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name, and he's not even a ghost, you know — I say, what are you all doing here?"

They had finally noticed the first years. "Ah! New students!" the Friar cried, looking around at them. "About to be Sorted, I presume?"

A few people nodded.

"Splendid!" the Friar beamed. "I hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old house, you know."

"Alright, everyone, move along now." The door had opened and Professor McGonagall was back. "The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin."

As the ghosts passed on through the opposite wall, the professor directed them into a line and ordered them to follow her. She led them across the hall and into the Great Hall.

The Great Hall was even bigger than the hall they had come from. There were thousands of candles floating in midair over four long tables where the rest of the students were sitting, watching as they walked in. In front of every student there were glittering golden plates and goblets. Across the front of the Hall there was another long table where the teachers were sitting. All the talking Harry had heard was gone, replaced by a silence that was filled with their nervous footsteps.

Professor McGonagall led the first years between the two middle tables up to the teachers' table, then had them stand in a line so they were facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. Harry could see all the students at the tables staring at them. He glanced up, mainly to avoid their eyes, and instead of a ceiling he saw the night sky dotted with stars. Somewhere down the line Hermione whispered, "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History_."

When Harry looked down again he saw Professor McGonagall carrying a four-legged stool and a rather shabby-looking hat toward them. She set the stool down in front of the students, then placed the hat on the stool. The hat was patched and frayed and looked like it might fall apart at any moment. Harry glanced at Ron to see if he knew what was happening, but Ron just shrugged.

Then the hat began to _sing_.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,  
But don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.  
You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.  
There's nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.  
You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;  
You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffis are true  
And unafraid of toil;  
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you've a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;  
Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folk use any means  
To achieve their ends.  
So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

The entire Hall burst into applause as the Hat concluded its song. As the applause died down the Hat tipped its pointy top to each of the four Houses, then became still again.

But a final pair of hands kept on clapping after everyone had stopped. It was coming from one end of the teachers' table, where a brown-haired man in a window-pane jacket, paisley tie and plaid fedora was still applauding. He finally stopped and looked up the table, where all the other teachers were staring at him. "That was quite a hat trick, wasn't it?" he asked, then began laughing in a loud, braying manner.

"Excuse me," one of the other teachers a few seats away said, a sallow-faced man with long, dark hair. "But who the devil are you supposed to be?!"

"Going a bit heavy on that hair-gel, aren't you, Chuckles?" the first man asked, then laughed again. "You might try some 10W-30 next time."

"How _dare_ you—" the man began.

"Professor Snape!" Dumbledore said, warningly, and the man subsided, still glowering at the other man.

Dumbledore stood and addressed the man. "You are, I assume, Harry Potter's tutor?"

"That's right, Gramps," the man nodded, standing. He took off his fedora and gave a small, ostentatious bow. "Uncle Arthur is my name and education is my game," he chuckled. He caught sight of Harry and waved. "Hi, Harry!"

Harry waved over his shoulder, smiling even though he felt like sinking into the floor with embarrassment. Uncle Arthur _always_ overdid his entrances!

McGonagall looked livid. "What is the meaning of this, Albus?! You never mentioned anything about a tutor for Harry Potter to _me_ or _anyone_ on the staff!"

"It was a necessary condition of Harry coming to school here," Dumbledore said, mildly. "Harry will be learning… _other_ subject matter from his tutor."

"In what way?" Snape, the sallow-faced wizard demanded. "Why should Potter be singled out for preferential treatment? If he wants to learn something other than what is taught here, he shouldn't be at Hogwarts!"

"Oh, put a sock in it, Bozo!" Arthur sneered. He gestured at the man, who was suddenly dressed in a blue and white polka-dot suit with a large ruff at the neck and extremely oversized shoes. His face had changed as well — it was now a pure white, with a bulbous red nose and a red smile painted around his mouth. Instead of his tangle of black, greasy hair, it was now bright red and spread out wildly around his head, which was now bald on top and completely white. When the man opened his mouth to protest a giggling laugh came from it instead. The entire Hall burst into laughter. Humiliated, the man ran from the room.

McGonagall was staring in complete shock at Arthur and Dumbledore in turn. "Albus," she demanded. "Who is this — this _person_?"

"Why don't you talk to _me_ , Toots," Arthur said to her. "I'm Harry's Uncle Arthur, here to tutor him while the rest of you teach him wand magic." While he spoke the other teachers at the table were whispering furiously amongst themselves. McGonagall, after shooting Dumbledore a furious glare, joined them for several moments before standing and turning back to the Headmaster.

"The other staff members find this situation unacceptable," she announced. "And frankly I concur with them. If Mr. Potter and his ' _tutor'_ wish to remain here at Hogwarts, they should not act so disruptively."

"Oh, lighten up, Granny," Arthur snorted. "You'll barely even notice I'm here. I'll only be in the classes Harry's taking, to answer his questions about your type of magic."

A very short wizard with white hair and a white beard stood up on his chair to address Arthur. "What do you mean by 'your type of magic,' sir? Do you know of some _other_ type of magic that we do not?"

"Don't worry about it, Shorty," Arthur replied. "You wouldn't understand anyway."

The diminutive wizard's mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. He sat down with a huff. The other witches and wizards at the staff table were still whispering with one another.

"Unacceptable!" McGonagall said again, her square eyeglasses flashing furiously. Harry had been right about her, he saw; she wasn't a witch to cross. But Uncle Arthur could be pretty stubborn himself, he knew.

Arthur turned to the woman with a devious gleam in his eyes. "Tell you what," he suggested. "Why don't we sit down and settle this like adults?" He walked over to stand next to her, then sat down and put one arm on the table. "Wanna arm wrestle?"

"What?!" McGonagall looked scandalized. "No, I certainly do not! I want you to explain yourself, sir — explain what you're doing here!"

Arthur was beginning to look both bored and irritated. "I'm here to provide additional tutoring for Harry," he said again, curtly. "What I'm teaching him is not your concern — you have your subjects to teach, and I have mine. It's already been cleared with your Headmaster, so we might as well get along rather than fighting with one another." He extended a hand toward McGonagall. "Shake?"

McGonagall looked dubious, but there wasn't much she could really do, if the Headmaster had cleared it. "All right," she replied in a grudging tone, taking Arthur's hand and shaking it.

When she tried to let go and pull her hand back, however, Arthur's hand and arm came with it, extending from his jacket sleeve until it was twice as long as his other arm. Arthur burst into laughter along with much of the Great Hall as McGonagall's eyes bugged in surprise. "I just kill myself sometimes!" Arthur chuckled, walking back to his chair with his arm dragging along behind him, shrinking back to normal size as he went.

He sat down and draped a friendly (and back to normal) arm over the shoulders of a timid-looking wizard sitting next to him, wearing a purple turban. "Nice hat," he said to the man, who looked at Arthur in absolute terror. "I can make you a great deal on a slightly-used talking hat, by the way." He guffawed loudly at his own joke.

Dumbledore turned to McGonagall. "Let us proceed with the Sorting Ceremony, Minerva," he said, trying to divert attention away from the strange wizard who had disrupted the proceedings.

McGonagall appeared ready to explode, but shook her head disgustedly and looked at the scroll of parchment in her hand. "When I call your name," she said in a tight voice. Everyone in the Great Hall was talking at once about what they had just seen — Professor Snape fleeing the room in disgrace, dressed like a ridiculous red-haired clown; the strange new teacher making juvenile jokes and performing strange, wandless magic. "You will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be Sorted!" she said loudly. No one seemed to be paying attention to her.

"STOP TALKING AND LISTEN TO ME!" McGonagall shrieked at the top of her lungs, and the entire Hall felt silent. "Right, then," she muttered. "Abbott, Hannah!"

As a girl with blonde pigtails ran up to the stool, sat down, and placed the Hat on her head, which fell down over her eyes, Ron leaned toward Harry and whispered, "So is that bloke really your uncle?"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Hat shouted. The table on their near right exploded into applause as the girl ran over and sat down.

"Yes," Harry murmured. "Well, not exactly, but that's what he told me to call him."

"Bones, Susan!"

"So what's he going to teach you?" Ron asked, curiously. "I mean, that the other professors here aren't?"

Harry dithered for a few moments. "It's a bit hard to explain—"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Boot, Terry!"

"He's going to teach me some other type of magic," Harry explained vaguely. "As well as stuff like math, science, history —"

Ron frowned. "What d'you need all _that_ for? Don't you want to learn how to do Charms or Transfiguration, things like that?"

"RAVENCLAW!" This time the first table on the left began applauding.

"Well, yes," Harry nodded. "But the magic Uncle Arthur's teaching me isn't like that. I don't have to use a wand to do it." That was probably more than he should have said but Ron was his _friend_ , after all!

"Brockelhurst, Mandy!"

Ron looked interested. "You saw _my_ wand. It'd be pretty cool if I didn't have to use it." Harry didn't say anything to that. What _could_ he say?

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Brown, Lavender!"

"GRYFFINDOR!" The table on the far left exploded into applause and cheers.

"Oh, look," Ron muttered, distracted as he watched the girl run over to the Gryffindor table. "The first new Gryffindor!"

"Where do you think you'll go?" Harry asked, hoping to change the subject.

"It better be Gryffindor," Ron said hopefully. "Or Fred and George'll _kill_ me." The twins had been cheering the loudest when Lavender was sorted into their house.

"Bulstrode, Millicent" became the first Slytherin to be Sorted. Looking over at that table, Harry decided they looked like a rather unpleasant lot. Samantha had warned him against judging people unfairly, but it was hard not to as he looked over the Slytherin table. Crabbe's name was called and he Sorted into Slytherin, just as Malfoy had said he would.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

In contrast, Harry thought, the Hufflepuff table seemed to be filled with generally nice, pleasant individuals. They were all smiling and chatting with one another and the new students who had just joined them.

"Finnigan, Seamus!"

A sandy-haired boy walked up to the stool and placed the hat on his head. Normally the Hat shouted out the house in a few seconds, but in Seamus's case it was almost a minute before the Hat roared, "GRYFFINDOR!" Seamus ran over to the Gryffindor table, which was applauding him wildly.

Goyle was called forward and was immediately sorted into Slytherin.

The next name called caught Harry's interest. "Granger, Hermione!" Hermione almost ran to the stool and put the Hat on her head. It had barely settled there before the Hat called out "GRYFFINDOR!"

Beside him, Ron groaned. "Why didn't she go into Ravenclaw?" he muttered unhappily.

"It won't be so bad," Harry murmured. "We just won't sit near her in class." But that wasn't going to keep him from talking to her when Ron wasn't around; she seemed to be quite intelligent, especially if she'd learned all her books by heart already!

Next up was "Longbottom, Neville," the boy who kept losing his toad. On the way to the stool he fell over, causing a ripple of giggles from all of the tables and outright laughter from the Slytherins. Still sniffling, Neville sat down and put the Hat on. It took a long time for the Hat to finally call out "GRYFFINDOR!" Neville jumped up and ran toward the Gryffindor table, but had to return amid more laughter when he realized he still had the Hat on his head. He passed it to "MacDougall, Morag" who had taken his place on the stool.

"Whoa," Ron muttered. "That kid's not having a good day, is he?"

"I guess not," Harry murmured. He'd recognized that name from Professor Dumbledore's visit a month ago. Neville Longbottom was the other boy born at the end of July, a boy whose parents had defied Voldemort three times, just as his parents had. That meant Neville might have been the subject of the prophecy, except for the fact that Voldemort had attacked his parents instead. He would have to get to know Neville better as well, to see what he knew about his past.

The Hat put Morag into Ravenclaw. The next name called was "Malfoy, Draco" and Harry watched with scorn as he swaggered up to the stool and sat down. The Hat barely touched his head before it sang out "SLYTHERIN!" Malfoy walked over to the Slytherin table looking extremely pleased with himself.

Harry watched as the line in front of him quickly thinned. Moon, Nott, Parkinson, then twin girls named Patil; one went to Ravenclaw, the other to Gryffindor. Then "Perks, Sally-Ann," who went into Hufflepuff, and finally, McGonagall called out his name: "Potter, Harry!"

Harry looked around to the teachers' table. Uncle Arthur was still there, talking to the man in the turban, who appeared to be very uncomfortable having Arthur so close to him. Arthur winked and gave Harry a thumbs-up. Harry smiled and returned the gesture, then walked over to the stool and sat down. He placed the Hat on his head as everyone in the Hall was craning to get a better look at him. The rim of the Hat came down over his eyes and all he could see was darkness.

There were several seconds of silence. Then, " _Oh, my_ ," a voice said in his ear. " _This is going to be difficult. You're nothing at all like the other students I've been placed on. Why are you even here_?"

I want to see what this school is like, Harry said in his head.

" _Is that all_?" The Hat didn't seem convinced. " _Are you_ sure _there's no other reason you might want to be here_?"

Well, if the Hat could read his mind — and now that Harry thought about it, if the Hat had been created with wand magic it might not really be intelligent. It could be using his own mind to supply its side of the conversation.

" _No need to spoil the illusion_ ," the Hat whined; it sounded a bit petulant to Harry. " _Let's just say I'm playing devil's advocate for you_."

Fine, Harry thought. Then you (I mean I) probably know that part of the reason I'm here is to find out about this Voldemort bloke who tried to kill me ten years ago. Professor Dumbledore thinks he's still alive. And if they pulled a bit of his soul out of me, it's possible other parts of his soul are still floating around somewhere. At least that's what Professor Dumbledore believed.

" _Maybe_ ," the Hat hedged. " _I can't speak to that one way or another, you'll have to ask Dumbledore what he knows_."  
I will, Harry promised. But that still leaves the matter of what House I should go into. Any thoughts on that?"

The Hat chuckled. " _Well, since you think my thoughts are_ your _thoughts, I'll put you in whichever house you want to go to_. _Now, I don't tell many students that — they think_ I'm _making the choice, not them_."

In that case, Harry thought. I think Ron really wants to go to Gryffindor, so that's probably where you'll put him. Hermione's in Gryffindor, too, though I don't know why — she should have gone into Ravenclaw, as smart as she is.

" _Hermione chose her house_ ," the Hat mentally shrugged. " _If you want to know why, ask her yourself. But for now, it's time for you to choose._ "

I choose Gryffindor.

" _I hope you enjoy it there, you would do well in any house. But if you're sure, it better be_ — GRYFFINDOR!"

The Hat shouted the last words aloud, and Harry stood up, dropped the Hat on the stool, and walked over to the Gryffindor table where Percy Weasley jumped up, shaking his hand and sat him down next to Fred and George Weasley, who were dancing on their chairs and shouting "We got Potter! We got Potter!" at the top of their lungs. Everyone at the Gryffindor table was leaning forward, calling his name and congratulating each other for Harry being with them. The ghost with the ruff even leaned over and patted him on the arm, leaving it with a cold, clammy sensation Harry had never experienced before. He would have to talk to Uncle Arthur about ghosts.

Only four people were still in line waiting to be Sorted. "Thomas, Dean" went to Gryffindor and "Turpin, Lisa" went to Ravenclaw. Then it was Ron's turn, who by now looked rather green, Harry thought. He sat on the stool and put the Hat on his head — a second later the Hat sang out "GRYFFINDOR!" and Ron jumped off the stool, ran over and collapsed into the chair next to Harry.

"Well done, Ron, excellent!" Percy told him as the final student, "Zabini, Blaise" was sorted into Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll, picked up the Hat and the stool, and strode away. When Harry glanced toward where Uncle Arthur had been sitting, he saw the seat was now empty. The man with the turban was still there, though, and still trembling.

While Harry was wondering what had happened to Uncle Arthur, Dumbledore stood once more. Beaming at the assembled students, he spread his arms wide. "Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they —"

"Hold on a second, Dumbles." Arthur was suddenly standing next to the Headmaster, leaning on the Headmaster's chair. Dumbledore started, surprised by his sudden appearance.

"How is he _doing_ that?" Percy muttered. "It's impossible to Apparate inside Hogwarts or anywhere on the grounds!"

"I read that in _Hogwarts, A History_ ," Hermione, further down the table, had leaned forward at Percy's words. "How can he _do_ that?"

"It's not —" Harry started to speak, but Percy suddenly put up a hand.

"Shush! I want to hear what they're talking about!"

"I just went to check out my room," Arthur was saying. "And you're going to have to do much better if I'm going to stay here," he complained. "There's no refrigerator, no television, and _most importantly_ —" he grinned lecherously. "— no maid to take care of my, er, _needs_."

Dumbledore finally regained his composure. "Hogwarts is a magical school, sir," he told Arthur. "Magic and Muggle electricity do not mix. You will find no such devices anywhere within the school. I would have thought," he added, with some condescension, "someone like yourself would be able to make such accommodations on your own."

"Watch it, Gramps," Arthur warned. "I'm not asking for myself so much as for Harry and the other students who have only recently been exposed to your kind of magic. They may be used to such conveniences at home and probably didn't expect to be living in the tenth century when they showed up here."  
McGonagall had come back into the Great Hall. "Be that as it may, sir," she retorted archly. "I will have you know that the castle's plumbing is thoroughly modernized, with both hot and cold running water. Lighting is provided by magical torches and braziers that light when their surroundings become too dark, and the rooms and halls are always kept adequately cooled or warmed, depending on the weather. In any event, it is not _your_ place to make such demands. If you are here to teach, that should be your primary concern. Hogwarts has done quite well for its students over the past thousand years!"

Arthur sighed. "You're starting to get on my nerves, Granny." McGonagall turned red, looking like she was about to begin screaming once again. Arthur held up a hand. "But never let it be said that I'm not a reasonable man." He walked over to his seat at the far end of the table; the turbaned man scooted away from him as he sat down. "I believe Dumbledore was about to begin the banquet. Let's eat, then Harry and I will discuss what he wants to do next."

"As you wish," Dumbledore said. He clapped his hands and the four tables were instantly filled with plates full of food. Harry had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roasted beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, brown sauce and even peppermints.

Smiling, Harry and Ron both dug in and filled their plates, as did everyone else at the table. Looking up and down the table, Harry could see the other first-years enjoying their meals. Hermione had filled her plate with roast beef and vegetables; Neville, across the table from him, was tucking into some Yorkshire pudding. Everyone looked happy, and Harry was happy, too. It had been a very unusual day, but no more unusual than any he'd had in the past two months, and he had thoroughly enjoyed it. When it came time for him and Uncle Arthur to talk, he would tell his uncle he wanted to stay. He knew his uncle was just complaining to get attention; it was the way he was whenever he was around. With food like this, not having a television or refrigerator was not a problem. Besides, Harry knew, before long he would be able to make things appear and disappear at will. And he would learn what it meant to be a wizard and witch like his parents had been.

That, and learning whether Voldemort was still around and still a problem for the wizarding world would make his stay here worth the trouble.

After the meal came pudding, and desserts of all kinds replaced the food on the four tables. Harry was nearly stuffed, but a plate of treacle tart caught his eye, and he put a slice on his plate, topping it with some clotted cream. Meanwhile Ron had predictably filled his plate with several desserts and was enthusiastically sampling them. As he ate the tart, Harry watched the teachers at the staff table. Uncle Arthur was still chatting with the nervous man in the silly purple turban; the very tiny wizard had settled into a conversation with Hagrid, making them a comical looking pair; a few witches on the other side of the table were huddled together, whispering and pointing toward Arthur at the other end. Harry considered listening in on their conversation but decided it would be rude. No doubt Arthur himself would know what was being said about him anyway. Professor McGonagall was eating a small piece of chocolate cake while glowering alternately at Dumbledore and Arthur. And Professor Dumbledore himself was sucking contentedly on a lemon drop, seemingly oblivious to it all.

At last the desserts disappeared as well, and Dumbledore roused himself from his seeming reverie. He got to his feet and the Great Hall instantly fell silent.

"Ahem," Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all students. Hence its name, 'Forbidden Forest.'" There were a few chuckles around the Hall. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." His blue eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins, both of whom smiled and waved back at him.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, our caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term." A few of the teachers, McGonagall included, Harry noticed, sat up and took notice as Dumbledore said this. Ron's attention was glued to the Headmaster as well. "Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally," Dumbledore concluded, now sounding quite serious. "I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Harry laughed, but not many other students joined him. Next to him, Percy was giving him a surprised and wary look.

"He's not serious, is he?" Harry asked Percy.

"I'm sure he is," Percy replied, though he was frowning at Dumbledore. "He usually tells us why we're not allowed to go somewhere, though — everyone knows the Forbidden Forest is full of dangerous creatures."

"Why?" Harry asked.

"What?" Percy sounded surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"Why is there a forest filled with dangerous creatures right next to a school?" Harry asked. "Whose bright idea was _that_?"

"Uh—" Percy looked stumped for a moment. "Well, it's not dangerous if you don't go in there!"

"What about if things _come out_ of the forest?" Harry persisted.

"Don't be ridiculous," Percy snapped. "They won't come out!"

"How do you know that?" Harry asked. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question to him.

"Well, because—" Percy faltered for a moment. "Er, because… because they haven't done it so far! Dumbledore would never let anything happen to the students anyway!"

Harry shrugged. Percy hadn't really given him an answer, but it didn't matter. Most creatures were only dangerous because they were afraid or didn't understand, but Harry had ways of communicating with them that most people lacked, so he was certain he could get along just fine if he visited the Forest someday.

That door in the third floor, the one Professor Dumbledore had warned them about, sounded interesting as well. What could possibly be behind it that was so dangerous that students risked _death_ going inside it? That didn't make sense, especially if Professor Dumbledore was supposed to protect the students in the school, not put them in danger. The Headmaster had promised Samantha that nothing would happen to him while he was here at Hogwarts. With Uncle Arthur along, his safety was all but guaranteed.

For now, however, he'd be content to just crawl into whatever bed they had for him and get some rest. It had been a long, interesting day, and with his stomach full, he was beginning to feel tired. After Professor Dumbledore led them in singing the school song, he dismissed everyone to bed. Harry and the rest of the first-years followed Percy through the corridors of the school up to the seventh floor, where they stopped before a life-sized portrait of a very fat lady. Looking down on them, she asked, "Password?" in an imperious tone.

" _Caput draconis_ ," Percy said, and the portrait swung open, revealing a round hole in the wall behind it. Everyone climbed through — Neville dropped Trevor and the toad tried to escape again, but it took a fortunate hop right into Harry's hands, and he handed it back to a grateful Neville after he stepped inside the room.

"This is the Gryffindor common room," Percy said, spreading his arms to indicate the large, round room they were standing in. There was a fire burning lazily in a large stone fireplace opposite the portal hole, and the room was filled with big, squashy chairs, tables, and couches. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting people and animals, including a lion and an animal Harry recognized from the Book of Magic as a hippogriff.

"Come along," Percy said to the boys. "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping. Miss Clearwater —" he gestured toward a girl who had just entered through the portrait hole, a blonde with long, curly hair, "who is a Ravenclaw prefect, has graciously volunteered to show the girls where they'll be sleeping." Percy smiled at her and she smiled back as they separated into two groups; it made Harry wonder if they were boyfriend and girlfriend, as he'd seen both Samantha and Darrin, as well as Tabitha and Michael, smiling at one another the same way. In contrast, he'd never seen Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia smile at each other much at all.

Percy led them up a staircase that took them in a slow spiral up to the top of a tower, where the final door opened into a room filled with five four-poster beds, one for each of the five first-year boys: Neville, Seamus, Dean, Ron and Harry himself. Their trunks (and Harry's suitcase) were sitting at the foot of each of the beds, and each boy went to claim the bed his belongings were nearest.

"Get some rest," Percy said, importantly. "Tomorrow's a Sunday, so there's no classes, but after breakfast we'll be conducting tours of the castle for all the first years. It'll give you a chance to have a look around the school, see where everything is." Nodding, he closed the door, leaving them alone.

They were all tired, so each boy took his turn in the toilet, changing into his pyjamas. After his turn, Harry settled down into his huge bed, even larger than the one he had at Tabitha's house. It was warm and comfortable, and he got under the covers, wondering what the next day would be like. He still had to talk to Uncle Arthur about staying…he hoped Arthur would be okay with that.

"Get off, Scabbers!" Ron suddenly spoke up from the next bed over. "He's chewing my sheets!"

Harry grinned, idly wondering if the fat gray rat, who'd slept nearly the entire time they were on the train, would be awake all night, keeping Ron up. The thought was only with him a moment, however, as he almost immediately nodded off to sleep.

=ooo=

 **A/N #2: Since Penelope is a Ravenclaw prefect, not a Gryffindor, I had her volunteer to help Percy show the first-year girls where they sleep, since males can't go up the girl's staircase. We still don't know who the fifth-year female Gryffindor prefect is. I wonder if it's possible she didn't make it to school for some reason.**

 **A/N #3: A note for the reviewer (dreamjanus) who pointed out that 10:35 a.m. in London is 5:35 a.m. in Florida, and that's "too early" for Darrin to be up. It's really not. Sam had to get up to pick up Harry and travel to King's Cross, she knew she would have to be up early, and so did Harry and Tablitha, in Connecticut. Also, it's not that unusual for older people like Darrin (he's 63 at this point in the story) to get up very early to start their day. He might have been awakened by the smell of the coffee Sam made for him before he left; he was drinking coffee when she returned from London.**

 **A/N #4: Thanks for your reviews, ideas and comments!**

 **A/N #5: Removed the line saying first-years can't play Quidditch, and Ron's reaction.**


	5. The Free Day

.

 **Chapter Five**

 **The Free Day**

 _Updated_ 9/4/2015

 **=ooo=**

Harry opened his eyes. For a moment he wondered where he was — the bed wasn't the one he was accustomed to sleeping in. He sat up, looking around. He was in a huge, four-poster bed, with thick, red curtains drawn on all four sides. He remembered where he was, now, but he didn't remember closing those curtains. Well, no matter; he'd been so tired last night he might have closed them and forgotten. This was his first full day at Hogwarts.

It was Sunday, so there were no classes, but Percy had told him last night that today there would be tours of the castle, to give new students the opportunity to have a look around their new school.

Harry glanced at his watch. It was 7:25. On the weekends breakfast started at 7:30 and ended at 9:30, so he had plenty of time to get ready. He started to gesture at the bed curtains, but stopped — he wasn't supposed to display his witchcraft in front of wand wizards. He'd have to make sure no one was watching.

Harry concentrated, using his witchcraft to look through his curtains and see the other beds. All of the other bed curtains were closed, and there was no one in the dorm room itself, so he was safe. Harry gestured at the drapes and they all swooshed open, revealing the room to him.

Harry jumped out of bed and padded to the dorm's bathroom, where he took a slow, hot shower that relaxed him and made him feel better. On Privet Drive he'd never been allowed to take his time in the bath — Vernon got upset if he was in the shower for more than a minute. He always accused Harry of wasting hot water when cold water would get him just as clean. Harry smiled as he lazily rinsed himself off — he'd never have to hear his uncle yelling at him to get his ruddy prat out of the shower again!

Stepping out of the shower, Harry snapped his fingers and a gust of warm air dried him in a few seconds. His pyjamas were in a heap on the bathroom floor — another snap of his fingers and they were clean, dry and folded on the vanity. But he'd forgotten to bring clothes to change into. Bother!

Well, that was easily remedied. Harry gestured at himself, summoning underwear, jeans, a shirt, socks and trainers. One moment he was naked, the next he was fully clothed. He glanced at himself in the vanity mirror. Hmm, the shirt wasn't the one he'd actually wanted; he'd have to work on that a bit, but everything else looked just fine. Grabbing his now clean and folded pyjamas, Harry opened the bathroom door.

On the other side Dean, Seamus and Neville were waiting for him. His way blocked, Harry halted and looked at the trio. "Oh, hi," he said, wondering what they were doing. Ron wasn't with them; he could hear snoring coming from his bed.

"You're _really_ Harry Potter?" Dean, a tall black boy, asked him. He had a look of fascination on his face, like Harry was some kind of celebrity. Well, according to Ron, Fred and George he _was_. Their sister Ginny had wanted to meet him for years, they'd told him.

"I really am," Harry nodded, stepping around them to drop his pyjamas on his bed. Each of them had a wardrobe next to their bed for storing school robes and other clothes, but nobody had unpacked their things last night, opting instead to go immediately to bed.

Harry turned back to them. "You lot going down to breakfast?" he asked.

"We need to talk first," Dean said. He pointed toward Harry's bed. "Sit down, Potter."

Bemused and curious, Harry sat on the foot of his bed, wondering what this was about. Dean and Seamus stood in front of him, with Neville standing nervously beside them. He kept glancing toward Ron's bed, as if he were afraid Ron would wake up and catch them ganging up on Harry. He appeared more fussed about it than Harry himself was.

Harry pointed to the tall black boy. "Your name is Dean, right? Dean Thomas?"

"Yeah," Dean said. He looked so serious, Harry thought.

Harry turned to the other boy. "And you're Seamus Finnigan?" Seamus nodded without saying anything. "Well, I know Neville," Harry said. "We shared a boat coming across the lake. So what do you guys want to talk about?"

"First off, we need to get something straight between us," Dean said. "You may be the Boy-Who-Lived, the one who killed You-Know-Who and all that rot, but don't expect us to treat you any different than anybody else in this school. You got that?"

"Sure," Harry agreed. "That's fine with me. I don't know anything about all of that, anyway — I'd never even heard of Voldemort until a month ago."

All three boys flinched at Harry's mention of the name Voldemort. "You — you shouldn't say his n-name," Neville stammered.

"Oh, sorry," Harry shrugged. "Ron told me nobody says his name, but I forgot."

"So — you're _not_ going to go around telling everyone that because you're the Boy-Who-Lived and the one who killed You-Know-Who, that you have to be treated different than everyone else?" Dean demanded.

" _No_ ," Harry denied, emphatically. "Why would I say that?"

"That's what we heard," Seamus said, challengingly. "Some older students were talking about it down in the common room last night after you went to sleep. Dean and me slipped down the stairs to listen to 'em talk. They were saying that your parents were killed protecting you, but that when You-Know-Who tried to kill _you_ , you somehow deflected his curse back on him, destroying him. Is that true?"

"I don't know," Harry shook his head. "I was only a year old, I don't remember."

"From what we heard," Seamus retorted. "You knew all about it, and you were bragging about it."

"I don't know what to tell you," Harry said. "Like I said, Ron told me more on the train than I'd ever heard of in my life."

Seamus and Dean looked at each other. "D'you think Weasley could have started all this?" Seamus asked him.

"How could he?" Harry pointed out. "He was with me the entire time yesterday, from when we got on the train until we went to sleep last night. He hasn't had time to start _anything_." He leaned forward. "Maybe we need to go to those students you heard talking, see where _they_ heard it from."

Dean shook his head. "They won't tell us anything, we're just 'ickle firsties' to them," he muttered, resentfully. "Anyway, we know where they heard it from. Seamus and I heard them say they overheard some Slytherins talking about you."

"Oh." Harry sat up at that. "That might be it. Draco Malfoy and two of his mates came to our compartment yesterday. He was trying to get me to be his friend — told me I shouldn't be hanging out with Ron."

Neville nodded. "The-the Slytherins consider the Weasleys to be blood traitors," he said uneasily, glancing toward Ron's bed once again. Ron's snoring had stopped but Harry didn't hear any movement behind his bed curtains.

"What are blood traitors?" Dean asked.

"Pure-blood wizards who willingly associate with half-bloods and Muggleborns," Neville said, looking down. "Pure-bloods who believe in blood purity think half-bloods and Muggleborns are diluting our magic, making wizards weaker."

"Do _you_ believe that, Neville?" Harry asked him, quietly.

"N-no! Of course not," Neville mumbled, still looking away. "I-I mean, I'm a pure-blood, but _my_ magic's almost nonexistent. My-my relatives all thought I was a Squib until my great-uncle Algie accidentally dropped me out of a window and I bounced when I hit the ground."

Harry didn't know what a Squib was, but before he could ask Dean said, "Well, we can't go to the Slytherins, then. Seamus is a half-blood and I'm Muggleborn." He glanced at Neville. "Unless _you_ want to go talk to them, Neville…"

"Not-not me!" Neville exclaimed, backing away with his hands raised. "That — that Malfoy kid and his friends were bothering me on the train, making fun of me because of Trevor! I-I don't w-want to have anything to do with them!"

 _More reasons for me not to like Malfoy_ , Harry thought. _I wonder if he's the one who started telling stories about me_? The terms Dean and Neville were using — pure-blood, half-blood, and Muggleborn — he'd never heard before, but he could guess at their meaning, given what they were saying. But he'd have to ask Ron what he knew, when he woke up—

" _Oi_!" Everyone turned to see Ron standing in front of his bed, glaring at Dean and Seamus. "What're you _doing_?! Leave Harry alone, he doesn't know about any of that rubbish!"

"You finally up, Weasley?" Dean turned to him. "We've just been having a little chat with your mate, Harry Potter."

"Yeah, I figured that out," Ron snapped. He stepped forward so he was eye-to-eye with Dean. He and Ron were both about the same height, but Dean had more muscle on him than Ron did. The two boys looked like they were about to have an argument. "You need to leave Harry the hell alone!"

"And what if I don't want to leave him alone?" Dean retorted. "What're you gonna _do_ about it?"

"Hold on, hold on," Harry interjected, before Ron could say anything that couldn't be smoothed over. "Ron, Dean and Seamus heard some students talking about me in the common room last night, about things I supposedly said, and they were trying to find out if they were true. They're not. And you couldn't have said anything about me to anyone yesterday, because you were with me the entire time. I think Malfoy or some other Slytherin started the talk.

"But for now," Harry continued, glancing at his watch, "It's almost eight, and I'm hungry. So what do you say we all go down and get some breakfast, and maybe we can find out who started the talk after we eat. What do you say?"

Dean and Ron were still glaring at each other, but— "Yeah," Ron nodded, taking a step back and relaxing. "I'm hungry, too. Let's go eat." He raised his eyebrows at Dean. "What do you say?"

"Alright," Dean agreed, and he and Seamus went to change into regular clothes. Neville watched them for a moment then stepped close to Harry and Ron. "S-sorry," he said in a low voice. "They woke me up this morning when you were in the shower and told me what they'd heard. They thought you'd be more willing to talk if there was three of us and one of you. But I didn't find out about a-any of that until just before you d-did."

"It's okay, Neville," Harry smiled, giving the boy a friendly pat on the arm. "Don't worry about it, I think we're all good now. Why don't you get dressed and come down with us?"

"Okay," Neville smiled for the first time that morning, then hurried over to get out clothes and wait his turn in the bathroom.

"That was pretty rotten of them to do something like that," Ron growled, low enough only Harry could hear. "You told me you never heard _any_ of that stuff about You-Know-Who and what happened when you were little."

"Yeah, but that's not what _they_ heard," Harry murmured in reply. "I guess there's lots of rumors about me flying around this place."

"Well, _I_ didn't start any of them!" Ron said quickly. "I doubt Fred or George did, either. Percy —" Ron thought for several seconds "— er, I dunno. Percy sometimes talks just to hear himself." Ron raised an eyebrow at Harry. "You were sitting next to him after you were Sorted. Did you two talk much?"

Harry shook his head. "Not about stuff like _that_. I was trying to figure out why Professor Dumbledore would allow the Forbidden Forest to have so many dangerous things in it so close to the school, and Percy was defending him, but that's all."

"Yeah," Ron shrugged. "He's kind of an odd duck. Percy, that is, not Professor Dumbledore. Well, _he_ is, too, kind of, but Fred and George think he's about the smartest wizard who ever lived. Mind you, that doesn't keep 'em from raising all kinds of hell in the school, to see if they can keep one step ahead of him and Professor McGonagall."

"Do they?" Harry asked.

"Oh, Merlin, no!" Ron laughed. "They spent a _lot_ of time in detention their first two years here. Mum kept promising to skin them alive when they came home for the summer, but their end-of-year grades were so good she always ended up forgiving them. I doubt this year will be any different."

When Ron and the rest of their dorm-mates were dressed they went down to the Great Hall, where breakfast was in full progress. Harry and Ron found a couple of empty chairs at their table and sat down, each grabbing a plate and loading it up with food. The amount of food spread out before them was dizzying: There were fried eggs, poached eggs and scrambled eggs, bacon slices both crisp and chewy, rashers, sausage links and sausage patties. There were plates loaded with buttered toast and soda bread, bowls of hash browns and country potatoes, plates of oatcakes along with bowls of jam, syrup and sliced bananas to put on them. There were gravy boats filled with white and brown gravy next to bowls of baked beans, white pudding, black pudding, sautéed mushrooms, fried green tomatoes, and even bubble and squeak.

"Pretty good spread, eh?" Ron mumbled, his mouth already full even as he continued to load his plate to near overflowing.

"Pretty good," Harry agreed. He had selected a couple of eggs, some sausages, bacon, and a couple of slices of toast. If he was still hungry after he finished these he'd try a few of the other items. When he'd cooked breakfast for the Dursleys they didn't have nearly this many things to eat, sticking mostly with bacon, eggs and toast, which were the only things Dudley liked, and which he ate a _lot_ of. Harry suddenly shook himself sharply; he needed to stop thinking about Dudley and the Dursleys — he was done with them forever!

When he looked up he found Hermione Granger sitting across from him, next to two other first-year girls who'd sat down with her. There was an open school book on the table in front with her. She was giving him an inquisitive stare. "Are you alright?" she asked.

"Sure," Harry replied. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You looked like something was bothering you," Hermione said, eyeing him carefully.

"It was nothing," Harry muttered, looking down at his breakfast. He didn't want to talk about the Dursleys anymore. He could still feel her eyes on him, though, like she was going to keep asking him questions.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to notice Ron for the first time. "Are you actually going to eat all that food?" she asked incredulously. The girls with her giggled behind their hands.

It took Ron several seconds to notice she was talking to him. "What?" he said. "What's wrong with what I'm eating?" He looked at his plate, which was already half-empty by now.

"That's a lot of food to eat at one time," Hermione retorted, archly. "You'll make yourself sick."

"Not bloody likely," Ron snickered. "I been eating for a long time now, I think I know how it's done."

"Language," Hermione snapped. She looked displeased, but shrugged and said, "Well, if you want to eat yourself into a stupor first thing in the morning, and probably fall asleep in all your classes, it's fine with me."

"We don't even _have_ classes today!" Ron pointed out.

"But we will tomorrow," she countered. "I've read that overeating in the morning is the number one cause of student absenteeism in schools across the United Kingdom."

"Look," Ron said, tapping his fork on the book in front of her. "You don't tell me what to eat, and I won't tell you what to read. Deal?"

"Fine with me," Hermione said again, then picked up the book and began to read, ignoring Ron. But not really, Harry could tell; she kept sneaking peeks at him as he tucked into his food again.

The two girls with Hermione were whispering to each other and giggling. From their furtive glances in his direction Harry could tell he was the subject of their conversation. Finally one of them, a girl with brown, curly hair, leaned forward and asked him, "Are you _really_ Harry Potter?"

Before Harry could answer Hermione looked up from her book. "Lavender, I _told_ you who he was!"

"I just wanted to hear it from him," Lavender said, smiling shyly at Harry. "I'm Lavender Brown, by the way," she went on, not giving Harry a chance to reply. "This is my friend Parvati," she pointed to the olive-skinned girl sitting next to her, who nodded at him. "We're very pleased to meet you," she gushed, almost breathlessly.

"Pleased to meet you," Harry said, smiling at her. After all the years of nobody wanting to talk to him at school because they were afraid of Dudley and his gang, it was kind of weird now that people were just coming up and introducing themselves. He ought to be polite and try to talk to have a conversation with them.

Harry looked at Parvati. "You and your sister are twins, aren't you?" he asked. Parvati nodded again. She seemed to be even shyer than he was! "I wonder what it would be like to have a twin," Harry went on, interested.

Parvati shrugged. "It's okay," she said. Her voice and accent were rather pleasant to listen to, Harry thought. "My sister can be way too serious, sometimes, though. She was _certain_ she was going to Sort into Ravenclaw."

"Where did you think you would go?" Harry asked.

Parvati rolled her eyes. " _Anywhere_ but Ravenclaw," she said emphatically. "I like Gryffindor; Lavender's in there, and Hermione's really smart so it's like we've got everything we, um, need…" Her voice trailed off, her mouth open as she looked at someone who had come up behind Harry.

Harry started to follow her gaze when a hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Hi, Harry!" a very familiar voice said. "Thanks for saving me a spot," the person said, sitting down beside him. Harry turned and looked into the eyes of—

Harry Potter.

Or at least, someone who looked exactly like him. "How's it going this morning?" his twin asked. "Boy, I'm famished." He began putting sausages and eggs on his plate.

Across the table, Hermione, Lavender and Parvati were all staring at the new arrival in shock, as were other students up and down the Gryffindor table. Students at other tables were beginning to look their way, too. Ron glanced up from his plate, saw the other Harry, and spit his food out in surprise. "Bloody hell, Harry!" he exclaimed. "There's _two_ of you?!"

"You — you're twins?!" Hermione gasped. She was so shocked she even forgot to scold Ron for his language. "Wait a second, that can't be! There was only one of you last night!"

"Are you Harry, too?" Lavender asked the twin, her eyes gleaming. She looked entirely too happy to see another one of him, Harry thought.

"Sort of," the other Harry said, grinning. "You might say I'm Extra-Harry!" He reached up, tousling his own hair so it stood up more, then laughed loudly at his own joke.

Oh. Of course.

"Uncle Arthur!" Harry muttered under his breath. "What are you doing?!"

"Well, you wanted to know what it was like to have a twin," Extra-Harry (or rather, Arthur) replied. "I thought I'd oblige."

"You're going to get us into trouble!" Harry hissed.

"Well, you know the old saying," Extra-Harry said. "Double, double, toil and trouble…" He laughed loudly at this.

"Hold on a sec." Fred and George were suddenly behind them, looking at the pair of Harrys. "Only one pair of twins to a House," Fred or George quipped. "One of you has got to go."

Before Harry could reply, though— "What is going on here?!" Professor McGonagall had come running down from the High Table to stare disbelievingly at the pair of Harrys. "Both of you, come with me, _now_!"

"I _told_ you we'd get into trouble," Harry muttered to Extra-Harry.

"Oh, don't worry," his doppelganger replied. "I'm probably in _twice_ as much trouble as you are." He laughed again.

"No talking!" McGonagall snapped.

"I wasn't talking, I was laughing," Extra-Harry said.

"Then NO LAUGHING!" McGonagall shouted. She led them out of the Great Hall, up the grand staircase in the entrance hall, and through a winding maze of corridors, stairs and doorways until they finally stood in a long corridor facing an ugly stone gargoyle.

"I'm here with Harry Potter," McGonagall told the gargoyle. "And with… _another_ Harry Potter, to see the Headmaster on a matter of discipline."

The gargoyle stepped aside, rather hastily in Harry's opinion, as if it had learned to stay out of Professor McGonagall's way, too. The wall behind it slid open, revealing a stone staircase that was moving upward of its own accord, like an escalator.

"Nice!" Extra-Harry said. "You've got hot and cold running stairs, too!" he chuckled.

"Be silent," McGonagall warned him. Extra-Harry shrugged meekly and followed the witch onto the staircase.

"What an old stick-in-the-mud," he muttered to Harry as Harry stepped on the stairs behind him.

"I heard that," McGonagall growled. Extra-Harry rolled his eyes but remained silent.

At the top of the stairs was a small landing with a large polished oak door, set with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin at its center. Professor McGonagall took hold of the knocker and rapped three times.

"Come in, come in," Professor Dumbledore's voice said. McGonagall led them inside, having Harry and Extra-Harry stand next to each other in front of the Headmaster's desk.

Harry glanced around the room. It was a magnificent office, circular in design, with much of the walls lined with shelves filled with books, along with several tall, spindly tables with strange, silvery devices on them that were softly beeping, tooting and hissing. There was a stand off to one side with a large red and gold bird sitting on it; Harry recognized it as a phoenix from a picture in his Book of Magic. He nodded toward the bird and it gave a short trill in reply that made him smile, somehow feeling better. On a high shelf behind the Headmaster was the Sorting Hat. It appeared to be staring down at him in amusement. Harry was starting to wonder: _was_ the Sorting Hat intelligent, or not? It wasn't on his head right now but it seemed aware he was here. Something else he could investigate when he had the opportunity…

Dumbledore regarded the two Harrys silently for several seconds. "Very interesting," he said at last. "I must admit I am rather impressed, Harry, if you've managed to brew Polyjuice Potion this early in your education."

" _Impressed_?!" McGonagall gasped. "Headmaster, how many school rules would Mr. Potter have broken if he made Polyjuice before the first day of classes?!"

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist, sister," Extra-Harry drawled at her. "It's nothing as primitive as that." Extra-Harry vanished, replaced by Uncle Arthur. "I was having a bit of fun. Harry was just along for the ride."

"Fun?!" McGonagall exploded. "Nearly the entire school saw me walk out of the Great Hall with _two Harry Potters_! How are we going to explain that?!"

Arthur smirked at her. "I thought you just did. Polyjuice Potion, right?"

McGonagall opened her mouth, then shut it, looking chagrined. She tried again. "It is _entirely_ inappropriate for a Hogwarts teacher—"

"I'm not a teacher, remember?" Arthur pointed out. "I'm Harry's tutor."

"— _or_ a person providing tutelage at this school to engage in ' _fun_!'"

Arthur looked at Dumbledore. "She hasn't had any in a while, has she?"

"I _BEG_ YOUR PARDON!" McGonagall screeched. Harry, Dumbledore and the Sorting Hat all winced. Arthur did, too, but he was smiling as he did.

"I meant fun," he remarked, innocently. "I don't know what _you_ were thinking of."

Harry was biting his lip, trying to keep from laughing. He didn't always get Uncle Arthur's humor but watching McGonagall's reactions were hilarious.

"Peace, Minerva," Dumbledore spoke calmly, though he appeared amused as well. "I think I understand the gist of the problem." He turned to Arthur. "While I appreciate a good joke as much as the next wizard, there are times when more rather than less decorum is called for.

"We will be able to explain seeing two Harrys without much difficulty, but I would appreciate it, Arthur, if you kept any similar pranks to yourself. It is unseemly for a teacher or tutor to engage in such hijinks."  
"Fine," Arthur conceded. "But you're really cramping my style, Dumbles. It makes me sad. But I'll try to keep a cheerful expression — for the students, that is…" He was suddenly dressed in a clown suit and whiteface. "Even though my heart is breaking," he sang plaintively. "Laugh, clown, laugh! Even though I'm only faking, laugh, clown, laugh!" He began laughing in earnest at his joke, stopping when he realized only Harry was smiling at his antics. He changed back into his plaid suit and fedora. "I really break you up, don't I?" he said to Dumbledore in a sullen tone, who merely smiled wryly and shrugged in reply.

"Albus! Do you have nothing else to say to this — this person?!" McGonagall demanded.

"I believe I have already expressed myself adequately on this matter, Minerva," Dumbledore replied, returning to his chair.

"Oo-o-oh!" McGonagall exclaimed, clenching her fists in frustration. She stalked from the Headmaster's office, slamming the door behind her.

"Don't go away mad," Arthur called after her. "Just go away!" He laughed loudly, then looked at Harry. "I guess we can go as well," he said, raising his hand to pop them away.

"A moment, Arthur," Dumbledore spoke up before they could leave. "There is a small matter I wish to discuss without Professor McGonagall present. The spell you cast on Professor Snape yesterday has not worn off yet."

"Snape? Snape?" Arthur searched his memory, trying to recall who the Headmaster was referring to. "Oh, you mean that greasy fellow having a permanently bad hair day?" he chuckled. "What's _his_ problem?"

"His problem," Dumbledore said flatly, "is that he looks like a clown, and he refuses to be seen in public, looking like he does."

"And he didn't _before_?" Arthur snickered. "So what do you want _me_ to do about it?"

"I would like you to change him back to his normal appearance."

"Fat chance," Arthur snorted, crossing his arms stubbornly. "He can apologize to Harry and me first, for demanding that we leave the school."

"Won't you reconsider?" Dumbledore asked, knowing Severus would sooner die than apologize.

"My mind's made up," Arthur said, with a firm shake of his head.

"Uncle Arthur, come on," Harry said, cajolingly. "It's no big deal."

After a few seconds Arthur shrugged and laughed. "I guess you're right, Harry." He gestured into the air. "He's back to normal now. More or less."

"Thank you, Arthur," Dumbledore said, graciously. "And I will remind Professor Snape in the future to be more polite toward you and Harry."

"Sounds like a plan," Arthur agreed. He put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Well, kiddo, shall we go see about taking one of those tours of the castle? Sounds like it could be a hoot!" He held up an arm and an owl appeared on it. "Who? Who?" the owl said.

"Why, me and Harry, that's who!" Arthur said, laughing. "Get it?" he said to Harry.

Harry was shaking his head and groaning. "That's so bad, Uncle Arthur!"

"I know," Arthur admitted. "I was about ready to cry _fowl_ myself!" He burst into more laughter as the owl disappeared from his arm and he and Harry vanished, leaving Dumbledore alone.

Dumbledore leaned forward, dropping his face into his hands. "I think I've conjured up a monster," he muttered. "And his name is Uncle Arthur…"

 **=ooo=**

Harry and Arthur reappeared in the private quarters Arthur had selected for himself. It reminded Harry of the interior of a sheik's tent — there were silk curtains hanging from every wall, cushions and pillows scattered on the floor in patterns approximating sofas and chairs, and even potted palm tree swaying gently in the corners, as if a gentle breeze were wafting through the room.

"Nice place," Harry commented.

"Decorated it myself," Arthur said proudly, then added, "With a little help from your cousin Sammy, of course."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Samantha's been here? How come she didn't find me to say hello?" He was suddenly missing her, now that he knew she'd been here.

"She and Laughing Boy were about to have dinner when I called her, so she couldn't stay long," Arthur explained. "Don't worry about it, kiddo, she'll be back to see you soon." He clapped his hands together. "Those tours sound boring, so what do you say we get started on your lessons for today?"

"What? You said the tours would be a hoot!" Harry complained.

"Eh," Arthur shrugged. "You've seen one magic castle hidden in the Scottish highland, you've seen 'em all."

"Well, _I've_ never seen one before!" Harry pointed out. "Besides, it's not even a school day today! Classes don't begin until tomorrow!"

"Well, I don't know…" Arthur rubbed his chin thoughtfully—Harry couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. "Samantha made me promise not to dawdle on getting started with your education—and you've got a ton of books to study." He pointed to the floor next to him and a large floor scale appeared, along with stacks and stacks of books that tipped the scale to 2000 pounds. "See what I mean?" he laughed.

"Please, Uncle Arthur!" Harry pleaded. "Can't we start tomorrow? _Please_?"

"Oh, very well," Arthur gave in, rolling his eyes. "Then you'd better get down to the entrance hall, that's where they're organizing those tours. They're going to start any minute, so you'd better get a move on."

"Thanks, Uncle Arthur!" Harry beamed at him. "I'll see you later!" He popped out.

"I thought he'd never leave," Arthur muttered to himself the moment Harry was gone. He looked up at the ceiling. "Okay, the coast is clear, my sweet. Come out, come out, wherever you are."

A witch appeared, a statuesque redhead in a silvery gown who smiled sultrily at him. "Hello, Arthur," she said in a husky, seductive voice. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"A decade or two, but who's counting?" Arthur grinned. "Aretha, it's marvelous to see you again! Welcome to my little home away from home."

Aretha looked around the room with a critical eye. "It's a bit…understated, isn't it?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "Especially for some old Scottish castle with none of the amenities of modern witchcraft. What are you doing here anyway, Arthur? This place is for wand users, not real witches and warlocks!"

"I'm helping out my niece, Samantha," Arthur replied. "My great-nephew Harry wanted to visit this place and I'm tutoring him in witchcraft and a few other subjects while he's here learning wand magic. His father and mother attended this school."

"His mother and father are _wand users_?" Aretha said, dismayed by the very idea. "Oh, the poor boy! Well, you are to be commended, Arthur, for dealing with such people for your nephew's sake!"

"Thanks," Arthur said, faking humility. "I do what I can."

"So why did you want to see me?" Aretha wondered curiously.

"Oh, I thought perhaps you might keep me company for a while," Arthur smiled casually. "It's dreadfully boring here, after all, and a familiar face like yours is a welcome sight."

Aretha glanced around the room again, looking dubious. "Oh, very well," she finally agreed. "I suppose I can give you some ideas for redecorating the place, at the very least. But, what shall we do after that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Arthur shrugged. Glasses of champagne appeared in his hands. He handed one to her. "I'm sure we can think of something."

"Mmm," Aretha purred. "I'm sure we can," she agreed, sipping from the glass.

 **=ooo=**

Invisible and intangible, Harry popped into the entrance hall. The room was filled with first-years from all four houses milling about, waiting for prefects to organize the tours that would take them through the castle.

Percy Weasley, a newly-minted fifth-year Gryffindor prefect, was trying to organize the first-years in his house into a group in order to begin the tour. "First years!" he called, waving an arm in the air. "With me! Over here, please!" Standing next to him was Hermione Granger, hands on her hips, looking at the other first-years impatiently; they were still chatting among themselves and with first-years from other houses about what they might see on the tours.

Harry walked up behind Hermione, becoming visible and solid. "Ready for the tour?" he said in her ear.

Hermione jumped, then rounded on him. "Where did you come from?" she demanded. Then, "Where did the other Harry Potter go?" and "I wouldn't be surprised if you've already gotten detention, you know."

Seeing Harry, Ron had hurried over. "All right there, Harry?" he asked. "What happened with McGonagall?"

"Professor McGonagall," Hermione corrected. Ron scowled at her, then rolled his eyes for Harry's benefit.

"My Uncle Arthur was pranking me," Harry said. "We talked with Professor Dumbledore and everything's fine."

Ron looked gobsmacked for a moment. "McGonagall took you to _Dumbledore_? Blimey, she must've been pissed!"

"Language!" Hermione hissed.

Ron ignored her. "I don't think even Fred and George ever got hauled in front of Dumbledore. McGonagall always handled them before."

By now other first-years had gathered in front of Percy, mostly because they saw Ron, Hermione and especially Harry standing near him. The other first-year boys, Dean, Seamus and Neville were there. Four other Gryffindor girls were there, too, though they were still talking and giggling amongst themselves rather than listening to Percy. Harry recognized Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Fay Dunbar and a red-headed girl with her hair braided in pigtails. Harry couldn't recall her name offhand but she'd been Sorted after Goyle and before Neville.

"Ahem!" Percy harrumphed into the girls' whispering and giggling. "Are we ready to take the tour?" Still giggling, the group of girls broke apart and fell silent under Percy's impatient stare. "Right, then," he said, with order and control finally restored. "I'll be conducting a tour of the castle this morning. The purpose of this tour is to acquaint you with the layout of the castle and with some of the challenges it may present in getting from one class to another.

"First of all, though you are all too young to Apparate," Percy went on, "there are spells on the castle grounds that prevent anyone from Apparating in or out of the castle, or from using Portkeys." Hermione immediately raised her hand. "Yes, Miss Granger?" Percy pointed to her.

"What are Portkeys?" she asked.

"Good question," Percy beamed, always eager for an opportunity to display his knowledge. "Portkeys are items enchanted with a _Portus_ spell. They transport one or more wizards from one location to another. The _Portus_ spell is regulated by the Ministry and is post-N.E.W.T. level magic, so you won't be seeing it in any of your school texts. Five points to Gryffindor for your question, Miss Granger!" Hermione smiled smugly at Harry and Ron. Ron ignored her, while Harry smiled back with a nod of acknowledgement.

"There are 142 staircases in Hogwarts Castle," Percy continued his lecture. "Some of them are constructed of wood, and many of them are movable, sometimes at odd moments. If you find yourself on a staircase and it begins moving, don't panic! Remain still while it changes position; then, when it stops, continue in whatever direction is most efficient in reaching your desired destination."

Harry stifled a yawn. This was boring. At the same moment Hermione raised her hand. "Yes?" Percy called on her again.

"Excuse me," Hermione asked. "Was this supposed to be a tour or a lecture?" There were a few muffled laughs from the other first-years.

"Ahem," Percy sounded mildly irritated, but he took the hint. "Yes, well, let's get the tour started then, shall we?" He pointed to a doorway on the left side of the grand staircase. "I'll show you the dungeons first." Opening the door revealed a long corridor with a downward slope, lighted by fires burning in braziers on the walls. He led the group through the door.

Harry and Ron hung back, letting the others pass through first. "This is not going to be much fun," Ron muttered to Harry. "I was hoping Penelope Clearwater was going to give our tour. She's not nearly as boring as Percy is. He doesn't say much about her but I think she's his girlfriend."

Harry nodded. He'd already noticed that about the two prefects. "Well, I _am_ curious to see the castle," he said. "I hope I find something that mentions my parents."

"Oh, yeah," Ron agreed. "There might be something, you know. I mean, everybody here talks about you all the time."

"I know," Harry muttered, not happy about that fact. He really hadn't expected to be quite as famous as he was turning out to be.

Percy's voice floated up from down the corridor. "Potter! Weasley! Keep up, you two!"

Ron scowled and looked at Harry. "You'd think my own brother would at least call me by my name," he grumbled. They sighed at the same time and followed the others down into the dungeons.

 **=ooo=**

At that moment in the Headmaster's office, two men sat down to begin a long-overdue conversation. The visitor, a younger man with a nervous disposition and wearing a purple turban, shivered even in the warmth of the office as he sipped at a hot cup of tea given to him by the Headmaster, who was favoring the younger wizard with a subtle yet appraising look.

"Is the tea to your liking, Quirinus?" Dumbledore asked, solicitously.

"Y-yes, Professor," the man mumbled in reply. "It's v-very good."

"Excellent," Dumbledore beamed. "Are you sure you won't have a scone as well?"

"I've j-just eaten breakfast, Professor, thank y-you," Quirrell demurred.

Quirinus Quirrell did not appear to be possessed, Dumbledore thought, though he could not be sure yet — the man had not met his eyes since he entered the Headmaster's office. Harry and Arthur had departed only a minute or so before the gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office announced Quirrell's arrival.

"I do appreciate you taking on the Defense professorship, Quirinus," Dumbledore continued. "As you know, the position has been plagued with difficulties as of late, and it has been impossible for the last few professors to continue in the job." This was something of an understatement. The position of Defense Against the Dark Arts had been jinxed since 1956, when Tom Riddle, by then calling himself Lord Voldemort, returned to the school seeking to teach the position. Dumbledore, who had just succeeded Armando Dippet as the new Headmaster, had turned him down, suspecting ulterior motives on Riddle's part. Incensed at being denied the position, Voldemort had jinxed it; since then no Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had lasted more than a year, and their lives invariably took a turn for the worse afterwards.

How much of this Quirrell knew, Dumbledore could only speculate; he had never told anyone what he suspected Riddle had done, not even his Deputy Headmistress. But its effects were clearly noticeable by now, 35 years and as many Defense professors later.

Quirrell nodded weakly. "I understand, Headmaster; I am grateful to be given the position and a chance to break the onus of misfortunes that seems to have surrounded it."

Dumbledore nodded, sipping his tea and saying nothing. Was Quirrell aware of the jinx? If so, it could be a clue that he had made contact with Voldemort.

The man at last looked up, and his pale blue eyes met Dumbledore's. "I do hope I will be able to fill the position as ably as my predecessors, Headmaster." As he spoke, Dumbledore's Legilimency slipped subtly into the man's mind, probing delicately for the telltale signs of possession.

He found nothing. Quirrell's mind was clear of any foreign influence or presence. Voldemort had not taken him over.

Dumbledore was almost disappointed. All of the other teachers in the school were free of any Dark influence; he had already seen to them. If Quirrell wasn't possessed, then Voldemort was either unaware of what he had brought to Hogwarts, or he was deliberately staying away, perhaps lurking nearby. It was possible he was in the Forbidden Forest, possessing a centaur or lower creature there, though that seemed unlikely; now that he was no longer hiding in Albania or Macedonai, Voldemort would be too proud, too arrogant to possess what he believed were lower creatures.

The Headmaster covered his disappointment by going over the nominal reason he had called Quirrell to his office: to discuss the syllabus for the Defense position for that year. Handing over the previous professor's notes, Dumbledore went over the status of each year's current education levels; sad to say, they were suffering under the effect of constant turnover due to Voldemort's jinx.

Quirrell looked over all of the information provided him carefully. "I ap-appear to have my work c-cut out for me," he murmured, collecting the Headmaster's notes. "I wish n-now I had returned sooner, s-so that I might have had more time to work on my syllabuses, as well as participate in that little experiment of yours in the third-floor corridor," he added.

Dumbledore was immediately alert. "And I as well, Quirinus. I would have welcomed your input. What have you heard about my little experiment?" he asked, casually.

"N-not much," Quirrell admitted. "I've mostly overheard the other p-professors commenting on it. W-what is its purpose, if I m-may ask, Headmaster?"

"Just an experiment testing student susceptibility to temptation," Dumbledore answered carefully. "There were several incidents in previous years where students were caught trying to enter the Forbidden Forest, in spite of the school rules forbidding it. This year I hope to distract anyone hoping to go on an 'adventure' of sorts from going into the Forest when there is a bona fide mystery right here in the school."

"Oh, my," Quirrell shivered. "Y-you haven't set up any death-traps in the school, have you, Headmaster?"

"Of course not," Dumbledore smiled. "None of the tests set up by myself or the staff are lethal in nature. My telling the students that death awaited them in that third floor corridor was merely my way of piquing their interest. There is nothing of interest awaiting them should anyone manage to make their way to the final room of the test. They will have merely wasted their time and, I hope, learned a valuable lesson in obeying rules."

And now the trap was set and baited, Dumbledore thought to himself. If Quirrell was in league with Voldemort, at some point he would very likely attempt to enter the corridor and obtain what he believed was hidden there.

It was indeed fortunate he had sent Hagrid to pick up the item he had hidden at the end of the test when he did, the day he had traveled to America to meet with Harry Potter and his new family, for later that very day someone attempted to break into the vault where the item had been placed. Very few wizards had the temerity or, more importantly, the _ability_ to break into Gringotts. Voldemort would be one of them, but to do so he would have had to commandeer a body. Dumbledore had suspected it was Quirrell but that suspicion had come to naught — Quirrell was not possessed. But if not him, then _who_ was the Dark Lord using as his pawn? He shuddered to think that the Dark Lord might have possessed one of his students! He would have to see about that as soon as possible…

Seeing the Headmaster's apparent distraction, Quirrell stood, then bowed slightly. "I will return to my q-quarters to work on my lessons," he murmured. "Thank you, H-headmaster, for providing this information to me."

"You're quire welcome, Quirinus," Dumbledore nodded.

Quirrell nodded again, then backed away from the Headmaster's desk until he reached the office's large oaken door. It opened at his approach, and he bowed again as he backed through it and out of the office.

Dumbledore sat back, steepling his fingers in contemplation. It was a strange way to leave his presence, but then Quirrell was a strange man. He always had been a bit strange, but especially so now, with that purple turban covering his head. It seemed to comfort him, Dumbledore had noticed, as he would sometimes absently reach up to touch it, like a child might clutch a comforting blanket to himself.

Quirrell, a Ravenclaw who was among the best academic achievers in Defense Against the Dark Arts on record, had nevertheless opted to return to the school to teach Muggle Studies in 1980. After a decade of that duty, in 1990 he announced he would undertake a Grand Tour, learning all he could about the world at large. He returned a year later, much changed from his journey. He was now much more anxious, more prone to panic attacks, ostensibly due to some unfortunate encounters he had endured during his travels, but oddly, he also now wished to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, a subject he was well-qualified in, but which now seemed to go against his current timidity and desire to avoid conflict.

However, Dumbledore required a Defense professor, and Quirrell would fill the bill, however incongruously. Was it too much to hope for, he wondered, that Quirrell would make it through most of the school year before succumbing either to his personal defects or showing his hand as Voldemort's minion?

 **=ooo=**

Quirrell walked away from the gargoyle and the closing wall with quick, furtive steps, his eyes darting around him looking for unseen dangers lurking nearby, such as any of the castle ghosts, or that thrice-damned poltergeist, any of the other staff members, or worst of all, students. When he had assured himself he was alone, he allowed a self-satisfied smile to cross his lips. "You were correct, Master," he whispered. "The old wizard was unable to detect your presence."

"Of course, Quirinus," a raspy voice answered from beneath the turban. "Dumbledore is quite intelligent, but even he has his blind spots. "He never realized that I could possess merely a portion of your body, rather than all of it, and he would not be able to detect me."

"The third-floor corridor obviously holds what you seek, Master," Quirrell continued. "What he took from Gringotts before I could acquire it. Let me make up my failure to you, Master, and seek out what he has hidden."

"Do not be hasty," the voice hissed from beneath the turban. "The old fool clearly expects you to do just that! I will not play to his hand. We will bide our time, Quirinus. You will discover the nature of the obstacles in this test of Dumbledore's — talk to the other teachers, learn what they know about it. I expect Dumbledore used them to help him set up his little test."

"As you wish, Master," Quirrell replied. He was silent for a moment. "And what of the boy, and his…tutor?"

For a time there was no reply. "That wizard, the one called Arthur, is more than he appears. You were right to fear him, Quirinus. Even the old fool seems to be afraid of what he can do. We will discover what mysteries the man possesses, and what magic he is tutoring the Potter boy in. It could be useful for us to have such information, such magic, as well."

"As you wish, Master," Quirrell said again.

"Return to your room for now, so I may rest, and you may engage in the trivialities of your profession." Quirrell nodded to himself, then moved off down the corridor toward his quarters.

 **=ooo=**

"And down this corridor," Percy pointed out a number of doors on either side of the hallway, "are several unused classrooms that were last used when Phineas Nigellus Black was Headmaster. He died in 1925 and was succeeded by Armando Dippet, who decided these rooms were too small to be effectively used." Percy smiled self-importantly, proud of his depth of knowledge of the castle's history.

Well over an hour into the tour, they had returned from the dungeons to the ground floor of the castle, and were now in the hallway north of the entrance hall. At this rate, Harry estimated, their tour was going to take most of the day to finish. The Hufflepuff, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tours had already passed them by, pausing only momentarily while Percy and Penelope exchanged pleasantries outside the Potions classroom, which Percy then forgot to show them in an effort to keep up with Penelope's tour!

"You know, I never thought Percy could be as boring as when I listened to him going on and on last summer about being made a prefect," Ron whispered to Harry. "I was wrong."

"At this rate we'll be at this all day," Harry whispered back. "We could find more interesting stuff to look at on our own."

"No doubt," Ron agreed. "But we can't skive off — Percy's keeps making sure we're all here."

"I noticed that," Harry muttered. "But I think I've got a way to distract him."

"Really? What?" Ron asked.

In response Harry raised his hand, attracting Percy's attention. Percy pointed to him. "What is it, Mr. Potter?"

"We've been at this over an hour now," Harry pointed out. "Do you think we might have a bathroom break?"

Percy frowned, but several other first-years nodded agreement. "Oh, very well," Percy grudgingly agreed. They had been just about to go into the north corridor, where some _very_ interesting classrooms were located, but he could probably use a break as well. "Follow me."

He led them back to the entrance hall and up the staircase to the first floor, then down a couple of corridors until they stopped in front of a door with a sign on it that said, "Girls Lavatory." "Here you go, young ladies," he said to the girls present. "When you're finished, wait here and we'll be back to collect you and continue the tour." The girls stampeded en masse through the door, and Percy pointed further down the corridor. "You boys follow me," he said.

They walked until they came to a corner, where Harry spied another door marked "Girls Lavatory," with another sign above it saying "Out of Order." The word "Girls" had been crossed out on the first sign and the words "Moaning Myrtle's" written above it. "What's this?" Harry asked, pointing at the door.

Percy stopped and turned around. He was beginning to look annoyed at Harry's interruptions. "You don't want to go in there, Mr. Potter," he said shortly. "That's Moaning Myrtle's bathroom."

"I guessed that," Harry replied. "But who's Moaning Myrtle?"

"Just another one of the castle ghosts," Percy said, waving a hand dismissively. "She haunts that bathroom for some reason. I think it's because she's supposed to have died in there." The first-year boys looked at one another, grining.

"That sounds pretty interesting," Dean Thomas said. "Maybe we should have a look." The other boys nodded agreement, including Harry and Ron.

"Look," Percy said impatiently. "D'you want a bathroom break or not? The boys bathroom is around this corner. Now come on!" The boys followed him around the corner to a door marked "Boys Lavatory." "There you go," Percy said, gesturing for them to go inside. "When you're done wait for me here. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Where're you going?" Ron asked him.

"To the prefects ba—" Percy cut himself off. "I have a few duties to perform," he said instead. "I'll be right back." He hurried off.

Ron stared after him suspiciously. "He's not fooling anyone," he muttered to Harry. "I heard him say this summer that prefects have their own bathrooms. That's probably where he's going."

"Suits me," Harry said, grinning. "Now we can have our own tour."

Ron smiled as well, but then a look of apprehension crossed his face. "What if we get caught?" he asked.

"How are we going to get caught?" Harry shrugged. "We're not doing anything wrong, are we? Just looking around the castle. Besides," he added, smiling deviously. "I've got something that'll keep anyone from noticing us."

He hadn't actually brought the Invisibility Cloak with him, but it was a simple matter to gesture at his pocket as he reached into it, summoning the Cloak to him. He brought out the silvery-gray cloak, unfolding it so Ron could see it, then draped it over himself, disappearing from view.

"Whoa!" Ron exclaimed. "That's brilliant, Harry! Where'd you get that?!"

"It was my father's," Harry explained, then opened it so Ron could see him again. "Come on, get in here," he said, and Ron stepped under the cloak with him.

"Where to, now?" Ron asked, after they were completely covered.

"I want to go back to that restroom," Harry said. "Maybe have a quick peek inside. Then let's go to that corridor on the third floor and see what's in there."

Ron started. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked, nervously. "I don't fancy having a painful death — you heard what Professor Dumbledore said."

"We're going to be invisible, Ron," Harry pointed out. "Whatever's in there is not going to see us."

"Oh, yeah," Ron murmured, not completely convinced.

They went back around the corner to where the out of order girls lavatory was located. But they were not alone: Hermione was standing outside the door, staring at the sign on it. Harry and Ron stopped a few feet away, watching her.

"What now?" Ron whispered.

"I dunno," Harry whispered back. He'd really wanted to see inside the bathroom, hoping to have quick chat with this Myrtle, whoever she was.

"Maybe we can scare her," Ron quietly suggested. "We could both yell 'Boo!' or something like that.

"That wouldn't be nice," Harry shook his head. "Funny, yes, but not nice."

At that moment Hermione turned to look in their direction. "I can hear you whispering, whoever you are," she said in a condescending tone. "I don't think yelling 'Boo' is going to work, now. So who's there?"

Chagrined, Harry and Ron pulled the Cloak down, so only their heads were showing. "You heard us?" Harry asked.

"Of course," Hermione said, blandly. "That's an invisibility cloak, right? They keep people from _seeing_ you, not _hearing_ you."

"Well, just forget you _saw_ or _heard_ us," Ron told her.

"We're going to ditch Percy and go on our own tour," Harry said.

"Really?" Hermione looked vaguely interested. "Poor Percy, he's a bit…"

"Excruciatingly boring," Ron supplied. "I was about to fall asleep on my feet just listening to him drone on and on and on…"

"Want to go with us?" Harry suddenly asked. Ron winced. "We're going to have a look at that corridor on the third floor."

Hermione frowned. "That doesn't sound like a good idea," she shook her head. "Unless you _want_ to die a very painful death, that is."

"I'm not planning on it," Harry said. "That's why we're using this Cloak, so whatever's there won't be able to see us." He opened the Cloak a bit. "If you want to come with us, get under. If not, we'll see you later—"

"Wait," Hermione said. She looked conflicted for a few moments, then sighed. "I suppose I _better_ come along, then, if only to provide the common sense _you two_ seem to be lacking."

Ron looked offended, but Harry just grinned at her. She stepped under the Cloak next to Harry, and the three of them disappeared beneath it.

With three people beneath the Cloak it was a little slow-going, but in a few minutes they were on the third floor and heading toward the right side of the castle. When they finally reached the door leading to the corridor, Harry lifted the Cloak just enough to reach for the handle. "Give it a go, Ron," he said.

"Me?" Ron paled. "Why do _I_ have to open it?"

"Because I'm holding up the Cloak," Harry pointed out, reasonably. "As soon as you open the door I'm going to drop it so we're invisible again."

Ron stared at the handle, gathering his courage. "All right, then," he muttered, putting out a hand slowly to grasp the handle. He pulled. The door didn't move. "It's locked," he said. "Well, never mind, then! I guess we can go back to the tour."

"Oh, honestly!" Hermione snapped. She took out her wand. "There's a very simple spell we can try," she said, pointing the wand at the handle. "It's in our first year spell books. Now, if it doesn't work I don't know what else we can do. Most other spells would destroy the lock or break the door, but I assume we don't want anyone to know we tried this, so there's not much else we can do—"

"Would you stop talking and just cast the ruddy spell?" Ron demanded.

Hermione gave Ron a disdainful look. "Very well," she said. She gestured at the door handle with her wand, then tapped the lock, saying, " _Alohomora_ " at the same time. There was a _click_ and the door swung open.

"Very good, Hermione!" Harry said, impressed. That was the first magic spell he'd seen a first-year successfully perform. "Let's go in!"

"But—" Hermione began, but Harry stepped forward, taking them with him.

The corridor was quite dark, but Harry's innate witchcraft abilities, developed over the past two months, allowed him to see what was before them. He was smiling with surprise and delight — he hadn't expected to find a hellhound here! "Interesting," he murmured, lowering the Cloak so they were invisible again.

"What is it, Harry?" Ron asked, squinting as his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness.

"I can make some light," Hermione said, in a normal voice, before Harry could shush her. She poked her arm out from beneath the Cloak, saying, " _Lumos_!" and the tip of her wand flared white, revealing the three heads of the hellhound in front of them.

The heads were staring at the light of the wand, and each nose was sniffing the air in front of it, as if searching them out. The hellhound took up the entire corridor in front of them — its three heads towered over them. They all bared their teeth, growling.

Ron made a strangled noise in his throat, too frightened to even scream. Hermione gasped and pulled her arm back under the Cloak, darkening the corridor again. "Harry, we have to go!" she whispered urgently.

But Harry had spotted something nearby he could use to keep the dog from attacking. "Look over there," he pointed behind the hellhound; there a harp was leaning against a wall. As he pointed, Harry cast a spell on the harp. It began to play a rendition of "Brahm's Lullaby."

The hellhound ceased growling. The heads began to nod as each one softly panted, its tongues lolling out of its mouths. It lay down in the corridor, crossing its forelegs and resting its three heads on them. In moments all six eyes closed and it was asleep.

"Oh, bloody hell," Ron breathed. "I thought we were goners."

"Language," Hermione said automatically. She turned to Harry. "What did you _do_?"

"Me?" Harry looked as innocent as he could. "I thought _you_ made the harp play. Did you know music would put the hellhound to sleep?"

"I read that it would, but I forgot until just now." She stared at the harp. "And I _didn't_ make it play. It must've done that on its own, somehow." She glanced at Ron. "Unless _you_ did it?" she asked, skeptically.

"No," Ron said, running a hand over his face in relief. "Can we leave now?"

"Hang on a sec," Harry said. There was something beneath the hellhound's front paws he wanted to check out. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak off them, folded it and put it in his pocket.

Ron was staring at him in horror. "What if _that thing_ wakes up?!"

"It won't," Hermione told him, condescendingly. "Not while the harp is playing."

"But what if it _does_?!" Ron demanded shrilly. "I'm too _young_ to die a painful death!"

"You won't, Harry assured him, walking closer to the hellhound. "But if the harp stops playing," he added, smiling at them. "I'll race you for the door."

Ron paled, but Hermione merely looked irritated. "What are you looking for?"

"This," Harry pointed to a trap door beneath the hellhound's paws. "I wonder what's down there?" His senses, enhanced by witchcraft, had already told him there was a lot of empty space beneath the trap door; it went down several levels, further than he could sense without casting a spell.

Ron was leaning forward carefully, looking at what Harry had pointed to. "We can't go down there, the — _whatever_ that thing is — paws are blocking our way."

"It's a hellhound, Ron," Hermione reminded him. She looked at Harry. "How did _you_ know? There's nothing about this creature in any of our first-year books."

Harry had seen a picture of one in the Book of Magic, but he couldn't tell Hermione that. "I read," was all he said.

"Well, I'd say we earned some House points, based on what we know," Hermione mused. "Except for the fact we're not supposed to be here in the first place. I suppose we ought to go."

"Hang on," Harry stopped her. "I want to see what's beneath that trap door. Do you know any levitation spells, Hermione? Maybe we could float it off there." He could do that with a simple gesture (he hoped — it was a _big_ creature), but he wasn't supposed to show his witchcraft to wand users.

"Are you _mad_?" Hermione stared at him incredulously. "I can barely levitate more than a feather! This thing must weigh a ton!"

"Just asking," Harry muttered, thinking. There must be a way to move the hellhound without rousing suspicion. Ah! Suddenly he had the solution. Turning so neither Ron nor Hermione could see his hands, Harry gestured at the creature.

The hellhound suddenly yawned and rolled, shifting so it was on its side. Its paws no longer covered the trap door.

"Hey, look," Harry said, turning around. "We can go down now —"

Ron and Hermione were both at the corridor doorway, with the door half open. "It didn't wake up, did it?" Ron whispered, just loud enough for Harry to hear.

"It's still asleep," Harry said. "Come back here."

He opened the trap door. Ron and Hermione came up hesitantly beside him, looking down into the darkness. "What do you see?" Ron asked, still shaking.

"It's a long drop," Harry said, unhappy. He wanted to continue, but it would be difficult to explain how they could just float down several floors. Wizards couldn't fly. "I don't think we ought to try it."

Both Ron and Hermione breathed sighs of relief. Then Ron glanced at Harry and said, "I mean, aww, too bad."

"There's no use courting disaster," Hermione said, more to herself than to Harry and Ron. She looked hopefully at them. "Are we going?"

Harry nodded glumly. The three of them trudged back to the corridor door and stepped into the hallway beyond it. "Okay, now what?" Ron asked.

" _Now_ ," a stern Scottish voice said. "I think a visit to my office is in order."

Hermione flinched as Professor McGonagall strode up to the trio. " _What_ in Merlin's name do you think you were doing in there?! You might have been killed!"

"Oh, I don't know," Harry said cheekily. He'd had about enough of the mixed messages the staff was giving him. "Professor Dumbledore assured me that this school was safe for students. Are you saying it's _not_ , Professor?"

McGonagall's glasses flashed angrily as she stared down her nose at him. "I am _saying_ ," she continued, in a tightly controlled voice. "You disobeyed an order from the Headmaster not to go into that corridor, Mr. Potter! What do you have to say for yourself?!"

"It's wasn't _exactly_ an order not to go in there, was it?" Harry pointed out. "I think the Headmaster said, and I quote, 'the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.'"

McGonagall fixed Harry with a baleful stare. "Mr. Potter," she asked tartly, "do you expect me to believe that you _wished_ to die a very painful death?"

Harry just shrugged. "I wish to point out," McGonagall continued. "No student has died here at Hogwarts in nearly fifty years. I do not intend for anyone to break that streak. The three of you follow me."

She led them to another office — hers, by the look of it. It had a distinctly Scottish look about it, with portraits of men in tartan skirts and pennants from several Quidditch teams on the walls. Harry recognized none of the teams but Ron whispered, "Scottish teams," in his ear as McGonagall took a seat at her desk and stared disapprovingly at the three of them.

"I am very disappointed in all three of you," she began. "Ten points from _each_ of you for disobeying the Headmaster. I'm especially disappointed in _you_ , Mr. Potter, since you seem to be the instigator of this behavior. Am I correct in assuming that bulge in your pants pocket is the Invisibility Cloak that belonged to your father?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry replied, meekly, wishing he'd sent it back to his suitcase now. He'd planned for them to use it to get back to the common room…

McGonagall held out her hand. "Give it here."

"But —!" Harry protested. What did she plan to do with his father's Cloak? McGonagall snapped her fingers insistently and Harry slowly took the Cloak from his pocket and reluctantly handed it over.

"I'm keeping this Cloak until the three of you each earn back the points I've deducted," McGonagall said, sternly. "Perhaps this will teach you to pay more attention to the rules and do what you're told." She pointed to the door. "Return to your common room; you are to stay there for the rest of the day."

"But—" Ron spoke impulsively, quailing a bit when McGonagall fixed her eyes on him. He continued, however. "But what about lunch?"

"I will have sandwiches and drinks sent to the common room," McGonagall said, relenting just a little. "I will inform the prefects you are to stay there until dinner tonight. Now, you may go."

Thoroughly chastened, the three young Gryffindors left McGonagall's office and slouched through the corridors back to the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady stared down at the three of them. "Looks like you three have had a hard time of it," she said to them. "Password?"

" _Caput draconis_ ," Hermione immediately said. But the portrait didn't move.

"Sorry, that changed this morning," the Fat Lady informed. "You'll have find a prefect to get the new password." She leaned back in her chair, smiling smugly at them.

"Oh, just open up!" Harry snapped, still angry with himself for losing his father's cloak.

"Sorry," the Fat Lady said. "I need the — what?" she suddenly exclaimed as the portrait opened of its own accord. "What's going on?!"

Harry ignored her. "Let's go," he said, and they scrambled through the hole behind the portrait. After she stepped through, Hermione looked back as the portrait swung shut.

"How did you do that?" she asked Harry.

His witchcraft had forced the portrait to open, Harry knew, but he just shrugged and said, "Maybe she decided to give us a break."

"Didn't seem like it," Ron wondered. "I thought she was enjoying herself."

"Well, I don't know," Harry said. He walked over and dropped in a big, squishy chair near the fireplace. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," he muttered to himself.

Ron went over and sat down next to him. "Sorry about your Cloak, mate," he said sympathetically, almost as if it was his fault, not Harry's, he'd lost it. "McGonagall can be a real —"

"Ron!" Hermione cut him off. "We _did_ break the rules," she added, as Ron glared at her. She walked over and sat in a chair facing them. "Still," she murmured fretfully. "Ten points apiece is a _lot_ of points to make up."

"Tell me about it," Ron said gloomily. "Fred and George told me about getting and losing points. You have to participate in class and stuff like that, and you only get a couple of points at a time — maybe five at most. It's gonna take us _forever_ to make up all thirty points so Harry can get his Cloak back!"

Harry grimaced to himself. Well, he'd been correct: McGonagall wasn't a teacher you should cross. No doubt Uncle Arthur's antics had ticked her off something fierce, and she was taking out her frustrations on him. Harry could deal with that, but he didn't want Ron or Hermione punished for something _he_ did.

Maybe this place _wasn't_ worth the trouble. He could learn witchcraft just as easily at home, back in America, where there weren't any wand wizards keeping him from practicing his witchcraft openly.

But this is what he'd asked for, he reminded himself. He was here to learn what he could about his mother and father — learning wand magic was just an incidental consequence of being here. So maybe he should just leave. He could always come back later, after he'd learned more witchcraft, and find out about his mother and father.

But he did like having new friends, like Ron and Dean and Neville, and Lavender and Parvati — even Hermione, though she was a bit bossy and she got on Ron's nerves. Harry thought she was nice, though. And she did already know a lot of spells, probably more than any other first-year in Gryffindor. And she knew about the hellhound as well, which even Ron had never heard of…

A poke in his arm brought him back to the common room. "You looked pretty serious there, Harry. What are you thinking?" Ron asked.

"Just…wondering how I can make up those thirty points," Harry said.

"Yeah, me too," Ron said, despairingly. He made an effort to rally, however. "But we can do it!" He glanced at Hermione. "Right?"

"Right," Hermione agreed. She put out a hand. "We should make a promise together, to do our best to make up those points and not get into any more trouble, ever. What do you think?" She held the hand out to Harry and Ron.

"I promise," Ron said immediately, putting his hand on hers. "Harry?"

"I promise, too," Harry agreed, smiling for the first time since leaving McGonagall's office.

A moment later a tray of roast beef and ham sandwiches appeared on the table, along with glasses and jugs of pumpkin juice and milk. "Cool!" Ron grinned. "Looks like lunch time!" He picked up a couple of sandwiches and began eating as Hermione poured them something to drink. Thirty minutes later, they were all full, and Harry and Ron both found themselves feeling sleepy.

"I should go up to the room for a kip," Ron yawned, but a moment later he was softly snoring.

Hermione stared at Ron, smiling and shaking her head. She smothered a yawn of her own. "Maybe I should go up, too," she said, tiredly.

"Before you do," Harry said, realizing he had a chance to ask her a few questions. "Can you tell me how you remembered all those spells from your school books? You said you learned them all by heart?"

Hermione beamed, pleased to be asked about herself. "I just have a very good memory," she said. "It's not like just anyone can do something like that. My Mum and Dad are both dentists, but they had to study very hard to learn everything they needed to know. I can read a book and remember everything that's in it."

"That's pretty neat," Harry said. It seemed like he remembered quite a bit of what he'd learned from the Book of Magic, since he started studying it. "I thought maybe there was a spell you could cast to make yourself remember more."

"No," Hermione said. "But I did read about Memory Potions for sale in an apothecary's shop in the _Daily Prophet_."

"What's the _Daily Prophet_?" Harry asked.

"It's the wizarding newspaper for Britain," Hermione said. "I've been reading it since Professor McGonagall took me to Diagon Alley to get my school supplies. It's very interesting."

They sat talking, each telling the other about the school they'd attended before Hogwarts, about Hermione's parents, and about Samantha and Darrin (Harry carefully avoided mentioning the Dursleys by saying Sam and Darrin were the relatives he'd been placed with after his parents died) with Ron snoring next to them, hardly noticing when the food they hadn't eaten disappeared.

They didn't notice Percy enter the common room some time later and place a sheet of parchment on a corkboard near the portrait hole, then walk over to where they were sitting until he harrumphed disapprovingly and said, "It's time for dinner, you three." Ron woke up and looked around blearily, asking if they were as hungry as he was. They stood and followed Percy down to the Great Hall, Harry and Hermione smiling at one another over the nice time they had chatting. He and Ron were really wrong about her, Harry decided; she was a very interesting girl, once you got her to talk at a normal speed. And she was really, really smart. Maybe, Harry reconsidered, he could deal with this school a bit longer. Tomorrow's classes would certainly give him an idea of how things would be here day by day.


	6. Ravens and Badgers and Snakes, Oh My!

.

 **Chapter Six**

 **Ravens and Badgers and Snakes, Oh My!**

 _Updated_ 9/18/2015

 **=ooo=**

Monday morning arrived, and with it the first day of classes. Harry quickly found that sharing a dorm room (and a bathroom) with four other boys was nothing like his mornings at Tabitha and Michael's house. And it was _certainly_ nothing like living with the Dursleys had been! On Privet Drive, during the summer months he had spent most of the time outside his cupboard doing chores around the house his aunt and uncle couldn't be bothered with, like mowing the lawn or weeding his aunt's garden, or inside endlessly sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor. Aunt Petunia was obsessed with cleanliness. No doubt she would have pitched a fit if she'd seen their dorm room by the time they were ready for breakfast.

The room looked like a tornado had blown through it. Damp towels were scattered around, on beds and hanging from wardrobes, trunks were open and their contents strewn across the floor as the boys tried to decide what books they should take with them — no one knew what classes they were going to have. Trevor the frog was loose and croaking somewhere. Harry figured he had hopped into the bathroom, having heard the sound of running water. The only constant in all this was Ron's rat, Scabbers — through all the chaos of five 11-year old boys getting ready for their first day of classes it stayed on Ron's bed, softly snoring.

"Aren't you afraid he'll run away?" Harry asked, eyeing the rat as it lay sprawled across Ron's pillow.

"What? Scabbers?" Ron laughed. "Not likely! The only time I've ever seen him move faster'n a crawl is at dinnertime. He'll probably sleep all day and keep me up half the night with his squeaking if I don't bring him enough to eat."

"What's he eat?" Harry asked, curious.

"Oh, anything," Ron shrugged. "I'd feed him from the table at home. He likes corned beef, which is good because I _don't_. He'll eat anything I give him. If Mum had any food none of us wanted, she'd have Percy or me give it to him."

"He was Percy's pet before you got him?" Harry continued.

"Yeah," Ron nodded. "He was supposed to be Bill's pet. Dad came home with him one night — said he was walking through Diagon Alley one day and had an odd impulse to visit the pet shop there. It was near Bill's eleventh birthday and Dad thought he might get him an owl. But he took one look at Scabbers and bought him then and there."

Harry smiled. It was a bit of an odd story, but— "That sounds very thoughtful of your dad."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Bill didn't think so. Turns out he _did_ want an owl, not a rat. Took one look at Scabbers and told Dad to take him back. Then they tried to give him to Charlie, but Charlie said the only pet he wanted was a _dragon_!"

Harry grinned. "Really? _That_ would be a brilliant pet to have!"

Ron shuddered. "Charlie always said that, too. Personally, I wouldn't want a pet that could cook and eat me in one breath. Anyway, Charlie never got one, thank Merlin! He didn't want Scabbers either, by the way. But Percy took one look at him and wanted to keep him. So he's been his pet ever since." Ron sighed. "And, now that Percy's got an _owl_ , he's mine, whether I want him or not."

"You don't want him?" Harry asked, surprised. "Really?"

"Oh, I _want_ him. I guess," Ron quickly added. "It's just that for once, I'd like to get something that's not a hand-me-down…"

Harry didn't say anything to that. He knew how Ron felt; for the past decade he'd lived with nothing but Dudley's hand-me-down clothes, and nothing else. No toys of his own, because Dudley never gave up a toy when he got tired of it — he just put it into the spare bedroom, where Harry was never allowed to go. "Ready for breakfast?" he asked, quietly.

Ron nodded glumly. "Ready," he muttered. They looked around the dorm room. They were the only ones there. Dean and Seamus had left a few minutes ago; Neville had lingered at the door a bit, watching Harry and Ron talk, but left before they finished.

There was a soft _croak_ from the bathroom. "Hang on a second," Harry said to Ron, then went to the bathroom door. Leaning in, he looked around until he saw Trevor sitting on the vanity. "Behave yourself," he said softly, pointing at the toad. "Neville's worried about you." Trevor gave a plaintive croak of agreement and Harry shut the door.

"What happened?" Ron asked as Harry rejoined him.

"I heard Trevor in the bathroom," Harry replied. "I shut the door so Neville can find him tonight."

Grabbing their book bags loaded with all their school books, the two of them walked down to the common room, out through the portrait hole and wended their way down the labyrinth of corridors and stairways to the grand staircase and into the Great Hall.

Ron hadn't said a word all the way down to breakfast. Harry was afraid he'd put his new mate into a bad mood by talking about not having any new things of his own. "Where do you want to sit?" Harry asked, as they approached the Gryffindor table. Ron shrugged then took a seat in an empty stretch of table, far away from any other students.

Harry glanced down the table, where he could see Hermione and several other first years sitting together. Hermione saw him looking and waved at them to come over. "Let's go sit down there," Harry suggested.

Ron looked. "Oh, blimey," he muttered. "I don't think I can deal with _her_ first thing in the morning."

"Come on," Harry nudged him. "She's not that bad." Ron looked at him askance. "Well, not _really_ ," Harry amended.

"Fine," Ron sighed, giving in. He slouched along behind Harry and they found chairs opposite Hermione, Fay Dunbar and the red-headed first-year girl whose name Harry couldn't remember. Harry gave them cheerful hellos and Ron mumbled a greeting. They began putting food on their plates, and Ron became a bit more cheerful as he began to eat.

The redhead suddenly leaned forward. "Are you _really_ Harry Potter?" she asked in a curious tone.

"Last time I looked," Harry replied cheerfully. "Sorry, I don't remember your name."

"I'm Darla Hood," the girl said, smiling. She reached a hand across the table. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Pleased to meet you," Harry said, shaking her hand. He sat back, glancing at Hermione, sitting on one side of Darla, and Fay on her other side, and wondering what he ought to say next.

Hermione solved the problem for him. "Are you ready for classes?" she asked Harry.

Harry shook his head. "Not really," he said, ruefully.

"Oh?" Hermione looked surprised. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know what classes I've got this morning," he replied. "Nobody's given me a schedule."

"Didn't you read the notice on the bulletin board?" Fay spoke up. "We're getting our class schedules this morning after breakfast."

"Oh," Harry said, feeling a bit foolish. "I didn't know."

"Percy put it on the bulletin board last night," Hermione said smugly. "I read it when we came back from dinner."

Ron looked up from his plate, scowling. "Why didn't you tell us?" he demanded.

"Because you _said_ you were tired and wanted to go to bed," Hermione replied, tartly.

Ron had said that mostly because he wanted to get away from Hermione. She had told everyone at dinner last night what had happened to them in the third-floor corridor, including losing ten points apiece for Gryffindor, for disobedience. Harry thought she was trying to give the other students fair warning about the forbidden corridor, but the lost points had not endeared them to the other Gryffindor students.

"It's no big deal," Harry put in, trying to mollify them both. "Once we get our schedules, we'll know what books to pack each day."

"Yeah, I guess," Ron muttered, adding more eggs and sausages to his plate. He picked up a pitcher and poured a glassful of an orange liquid that wasn't orange juice.

"What is that?" Harry asked. He'd seen Ron drinking it before, but had stuck to milk, which he hadn't been allowed to have at Privet Drive ("it's for Dudley, he's a growing boy!"). He'd fallen in love with the beverage when he'd tried it at Samantha's and Tabitha's homes.

"It's pumpkin juice," Ron answered, wiping an orange mustache away with the back of one hand, earning him a disapproving _tsk_ from Hermione. "It's good," he told Harry. "You ought to try it."

Harry shrugged, then picked up a pitcher and poured some juice into an empty glass that had suddenly appeared in front of him. _Huh. Very handy_ , Harry thought to himself. _If things like that keep happening I may be able to sneak in a little witchcraft of my own_.

He picked up the glass, staring at the pumpkin juice for several seconds, then tasted it. It wasn't bad — it was like the liquid version of a pumpkin pie Tabitha had made for him when he told her he'd never had any before. "Not bad," he said to Ron.

Across the table from him, Darla was trying some as well. "Ewww!" she said, shaking her head in disgust. "That's nasty!"

"You don't like pumpkin juice?" Fay asked her. Darla shook her head emphatically _no_. "I think it's great."

"Good, you can have mine," Darla said, pushing her glass toward Fay and pouring herself a glass of milk.

There was a rustle of many wings and the Great Hall was suddenly filled with dozens, or more likely _hundreds_ of owl, all circling above them until they spotted a particular person and swooped down to land on tables or simply drop off items, both to students and to teachers. As Harry watched, fascinated, a tawny owl landed on the table in front of him, between a jar of marmalade and a bowl of sugar, a rolled-up paper tied to its leg, and it out toward Hermione, who untied the paper from the owl's leg, then put five Knuts in a pouch tied to its other leg. The owl hooted once, took a slice of bacon from a nearby plate, and flew off.

Harry stared, rather bemusedly, as Hermione quickly unrolled the paper, revealing it as that morning's edition of the _Daily Prophet_ , and began reading. "Mmm," she murmured to herself after nearly a minute. "Not much happened yesterday, I see…" She glanced up momentarily and saw Harry staring at her. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing, I guess," Harry shrugged. Owls were still circling above them, and every so often there'd be a soft _plop_ as something white and nasty landed on the table nearby. After a few seconds it would disappear, but _still_ — "Is this how you get your news?"

"This is how wizards get all their mail," Hermione replied. "Didn't you _know_?"

"How would I know?" Harry retorted. "I've never lived with wizards before."

"Oh, yeah," Ron said, grabbing a piece of toast off a plate and buttering it. "Lots of wizards have owls. We've got one of our own — his name's Errol. Mind you, he's pretty old, an' he doesn't get around very well any more, but he's really handy for sending notes back and forth between here and the Burrow, if you don't mind waiting a week between replies."

"What's the Burrow?" Harry asked.

"Oh, that's our house," Ron answered, taking a bite from his toast. "It's in Devon, near Ottery St. Catchpole. Bit off the beaten path, but it's not like we get many visitors, if you know what I mean." He started to take another bite of toast but noticed a white splotch had appeared on it. "Oh, yuck," he grimaced, tossing the toast onto the table. After a moment it disappeared. "Maybe you can come visit next summer," he suggested to Harry. "We've got plenty of room, and there's an orchard out back where Fred and George practice Quidditch. I'm hoping they let me practice with them now that I can be on the Quidditch team next year."

"Aren't you going to try out for this year?" Harry asked. "I thought you really liked the game?"

Before Ron could answer Hermione said. "First-years don't normally play on the Hogwarts Quidditch teams as they're not allowed their own brooms. Isn't that right, Ron?"

Ron was giving her a dirty look. "That's right," he muttered, scowling. "Thanks for reminding me." Hermione smiled as if she'd just done him a favor.

Harry went back to eating his breakfast, now leaning forward a bit to protect his food from the occasional owl dropping, though they were happening less and less frequently now that most of the… _mail_ , Harry supposed he should call it — had been delivered. How long had wizards been getting their mail this way, he wondered. It was rather — _quaint_ , Harry supposed was one way to describe it, but it would never work if he wanted to send a letter or some small item back home to Connecticut, or to Samantha or Darin in Florida. An owl would never be able to fly across the Atlantic Ocean. Would it?

The room suddenly went quiet as Professor Dumbledore, who'd been having a quiet breakfast of his own at the teachers' table, stood and raised a hand to get the Great Hall's attention. "Good morning to you all," he said cheerfully. There was a low drone of moans and murmurs from all four tables, mostly from the older students. "I trust you've all been sufficiently watered and fed this morning," Dumbledore continued. "Now is the moment I'm sure all of you have been waiting for — your class schedules will be handed out. To do that I shall turn over the proceedings to Professor McGonagall, who will explain all."

Dumbledore sat down and McGonagall rose and walked around the High Table to one of four tables that appeared in front of it. As she did, three other professors joined her—a short, plump witch with flyaway gray hair, the even-smaller wizard with the white hair and beard, and Professor Snape, who was wearing a black cloak and hood covering his head. His face was back to its normal appearance (as far as Harry could tell — it looked the same as it had the night before Arthur turned him into Bozo the Clown), but beyond his face and hands, nothing else of him was visible. Harry glanced toward the High Table, looking for Uncle Arthur, but he wasn't there.

 _Uncle Arthur, where are you_? Harry thought into the ether, trying to contact him. _Are you going to classes with me today_?

 _You'll do fine on your own today, kiddo_ , Arthur's voice came back after a moment. _I have a few things to take care of before we meet tonight for your lessons_.

Harry groaned inwardly. He'd almost forgotten — he had to study wand magic _and_ his witchcraft lessons _and_ the mortal subjects he needed to take! He was beginning to wonder if he hadn't bitten off more than he could chew.

"When I call out a year," Professor McGonagall was saying, "I want students to go to the table with their Head of House and collect their class schedule. Professor Snape is Head of House Slytherin, Professor Sprout is Head of Hufflepuff, and Professor Flitwick is Head of Ravenclaw." Each professor nodded in turn as McGonagall called out their names. "I, of course, am Head of House Gryffindor," she added. "After you have your schedules, you may proceed to your classes. It is 8:40 right now —" Harry glanced at his watch, finding she was correct— "and I expect all students to be in their classrooms and ready for class at 9 a.m. No exceptions!" She shot a glare at Fred and George Weasley, who both folded their hands and looked upward with innocent expressions. "First years, you will not get lost as your schedules are enchanted to point the way to your classrooms. All right, let's begin with year seven. Seventh-years, please pick up your schedules."

Students began getting up from all four tables and going up to get their schedules. The room began emptying out. Harry was watching with interest, as were Hermione and the first-year girls with her. Ron had gone back to cleaning his plate.

Hermione looked across the table at him, shaking her head in disbelief. "You can't be serious," she muttered at him. "You're still _eating_?!"

"I'm a growing boy," Ron deadpanned back at her, chewing on a strip of bacon. "And bacon is brain food."

" _Fish_ is brain food," Hermione disagreed. "Don't you know that?"

"I know what food works for _my_ brain," Ron retorted, grabbing another handful of bacon strips from a nearby plate. Hermione rolled her eyes and looked away.

In quick succession the seventh-years, then the sixth-years were called up to collect their schedules, exiting the Great Hall afterwards. They took a bit longer, it seemed — there were some discussions about which classes some of the students would be taking. Then came the fifth-years. Percy, Harry noted, seemed quite satisfied with his schedule. He took it from McGonagall, then went over to wait for Penelope Clearwater to get hers. The two of them walked out together. Harry and Ron exchanged smirks. Percy definitely had it bad.

Ron was about to take another slice of bacon off a plate when all the food suddenly disappeared from the tables. "Aww," he muttered, popping a last slice in his hand into his mouth. Harry glanced at his watch. It was just 8:50. "Breakfast is over," he said unnecessarily to Ron, who shrugged unhappily.

At last it was time for the first-years to come forward. The room was nearly empty by now. Harry and the other Gryffindors queued up at the table where McGonagall was handing out schedules. He and Ron were near the end of the line — Harry wanted to watch how the schedules were handed out.

There wasn't much to it. When you approached the table McGonagall plucked a schedule off the table and handed it to you. Harry watched as Fay, then Darla, then Hermione received their schedules. Seamus and Dean were next, followed by Lavender and Parvati, then Neville. Ron got his, and Harry was the last Gryffindor to receive his schedule. He nodded and mumbled "Thanks," to Professor McGonagall, who nodded sternly back (she seemed to do most things in a stern way, somehow).

The schedule was a grid of times down the left side, with five columns, one for each day of the week. Right now only the column for Monday's classes were filled in. Harry stopped and turned back to McGonagall, pointing at the blank columns.

"They will be filled in at the beginning of each day, Mr. Potter," she told him. "Now you'd better get moving if you're going to make it to your first class by 9 a.m. I believe it's Herbology with Professor Sprout."

Harry turned back to his schedule, looking at the classes for Monday:

 **Class Schedule for Harry James Potter, Year 1**

Monday  
Breakfast from 8 a.m. to 8:50 a.m.

Period 1, from 9 a.m. to 9:50 a.m.  
Herbology, with Professor Sprout

Period 2, from 10 a.m. to 10:50 a.m.  
Charms, with Professor Flitwick

Period 3, from 11 a.m. to 11:50 a.m.  
Potions, with Professor Snape

Lunch from noon to 12:50 p.m.

Period 4, from 1 p.m. to 1:50 p.m.  
History of Magic with Professor Binns

Period 5, from 2 p.m. to 3:50 p.m.  
Defense Against the Dark Arts (double period),  
with Professor Quirrell

Dinner from 6 p.m to 6:50 p.m.

First-year curfew from 9 p.m. to 6 a.m.

He caught up with the other first-years, who appeared to be waiting for him. "Let's see," said Ron, glancing at the parchment Harry held. "Yep, same classes as all of us."

"Hey, look," Harry said, pointing at the top of his schedule. "My middle name is James!"

"What?" Hermione stared at him. So did the other first-years. "You don't know your own middle name?"

Harry shook his head. "Nobody ever told me before. All I've ever heard is 'Harry Potter' or 'boy.' My relatives never called me by my name."

"I thought you liked your relatives," Ron muttered to him in a low voice. "You said they were nice."

"Er," Harry stammered, caught in a lie. He'd avoided telling Ron about the Dursleys. "I, er, had other relatives who weren't so nice," he hastily explained. "I had to live with them for a while before I went to live with my other relatives." _For ten years, that is_ , he added to himself.

"We'd better get going," Hermione said. "We don't want to be late." Everyone fell into a clump behind her as she followed a glow along one edge of her schedule that was leading her and the rest of them to the Herbology classroom.

Herbology class turned out to be outside the castle itself. They walked out an exit on the castle's far east side, finding several greenhouses lined up there. The schedules pointed them to the first greenhouse, where they found Professor Sprout, the short, plump witch Harry had seen at the High Table, waiting for them. "Good morning, first years," she said to them, pleasantly enough. "I am Professor Sprout, and I will be teaching you Herbology."

She took out a sheet of parchment and called out their names in alphabetical order, checking off each one as they answered.

"Herbology is the study of plants and fungi, both magical and non-magical, the growing and caring of them, and the uses we have for them in potions," Sprout began. "They are also used in medicine, and when you're older we'll discuss how they are used to treat different magical maladies and illnesses.

"I would first like to caution you that some plants in the other greenhouses can be dangerous if you don't know what you're doing," Sprout admonished them. "Therefore, do not enter any of the other greenhouses unless you are given permission to do so." She turned an eye toward Harry, Ron and Hermione. "Have I made myself clear?"

Everyone nodded or mumbled a "Yes, ma'am." Harry supposed, with some resentment, that the tale of their trip to the third floor had spread to the teachers.

Professor Sprout launched into a discussion of the different plants that were scattered about the greenhouse around them: there were bouncing bulbs and puffapods, nettles, wormwood, moly flowers, and a white flowering plant called asphodel, and a bluish plant Sprout named as aconite, also called monkshood and wolfsbane.

Some of these plants Harry had already seen in the Book of Magic, including the aconite. They were useful in potions made by the Apothecary, an older warlock named Postlethwaite who'd been making medicines for witches and warlocks for as long as anyone could remember, including Endora. There was a picture of him in the Book of Magic: a thin, older man with curly gray hair and bushy sideburns, wearing suspenders holding up baggy gray pants and a long-sleeved, striped shirt. He'd wanted to visit the Apothecary's shop, but neither Samantha or Tabitha seemed too keen on taking him there, and they wouldn't tell him why.

Professor Sprout ended the class by assigning them reading from their first-year Herbology textbook, plus all the odd-numbered questions at the end of the second chapter. The bell rang ending the class, and the first-years marched back into the castle, on their way to the next class: Charms with Professor Flitwick.

Arthur watched as Harry left the classroom, walking invisible and intangible behind him, hidden from Harry's perceptions. He'd done fine in his first class, Arthur decided. It had taken a lot of effort not to pull any pranks while he was watching, but Arthur had managed to control himself. Just barely. He might have to pop of for a quick joke at Samantha's husband's expense, though, just to relieve his pent-up tension for a good pranking. Well, why not? Arthur gestured and vanished from the greenhouse.

 **=ooo=**

The rest of their classes that morning went about the same as Herbology, with a few surprises along the way. Professor Flitwick was the short, white-haired wizard who'd handed out schedules to the Ravenclaws. That made him the Head of House for Ravenclaw, and Harry caught the old wizard staring a bit wistfully at Hermione as he called the roll when class started. When he called out Harry's name and Harry answered, he gave a little start of surprise, as if he couldn't believe Harry Potter was actually in his classroom.

Potions class was next, taught by the disagreeable Professor Snape, who was waiting for them in his classroom when they all arrived for the third period. He was still in his black cloak and hood, pulled tightly about his face, and Harry wondered again what had happened to his hair. Uncle Arthur was supposed to have put him right the other day. In fact, what was this about _headwear_? Professor Quirrell was wearing a turban, and now Snape and his hood… weird.

When they were seated Snape pulled out a sheet of parchment with their names and began calling the roll, staring down at it and muttering name after name so they were barely audible. When he came to Harry's name, however, he looked up, his dark eyes flashing with what Harry sensed was a deep dislike of him, and said in a flat yet taunting voice, "Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity."

Harry sighed inwardly as the other first years began whispering around him. Professor Snape was not going to let him off without some kind of confrontation, it seemed. He steeled himself to deal with the unpleasantness that was inevitably to come.

" _Silence_ ," Snape's voice whip-cracked through the room, quieting the whispers. "None of you will speak until I give you permission to do so, is that clear?" Silence pervaded the room. " _Well_?"

"Yes, Professor," the class muttered in reply.

"I cannot hear you," Snape said, standing up from his desk. "Is — that — _clear_?"

"Yes, Professor!" the entire class answered loudly. Harry stubbornly remained silent.

Snape noticed. He walked slowly around his desk, coming up to where Harry and Ron were sitting and stopping directly in front of Harry. "Perhaps you were thinking about something more important than what I was saying, Mr. Potter," he murmured in a silky yet dangerous tone. "Do you understand what I've told you?"

Harry nodded without speaking. "Then answer me!" Snape demanded.

"Yes, Professor," Harry said at last.

"Why didn't you answer before?" Snape wanted to know.

"You hadn't given me permission to speak before," Harry answered. "I was just following your orders." Behind him, there were several muffled giggles and chuckles, none of which escaped Snape's notice.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, for cheek," Snape said, a thin, grim smile at last appearing on his lips. "Between you and your friends, Potter, you've managed to lose Gryffindor forty points before the first day of classes has ended. I daresay this does not bode well for Gryffindor's efforts to win the House Cup this year."

 _He was enjoying this_! Harry could tell. What burr Snape had up his arse at Harry, he had no clue, but treating him like this certainly wasn't the right way to deal with it! The Potions professor turned and walked back to his desk, sitting down and continuing the roll call, leaving Harry to fume in silence. Beside him, Ron put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it," he whispered. "Fred and George told me Snape only treats students in his House decently. He deducts points from all the other Houses and gives out detentions whenever he can—"

"Weasley, Ronald," Snape called his name, and Ron fell silent after a muttered "Here" in reply.

Snape continued to stare at him. "I noticed you whispering something to Mr. Potter. Do you have something to share with the rest of the class?"

"Er— no, sir," Ron muttered, trying to shrink back into his seat.

"Are you sure?" Snape pressed. "I'm certain we would all like to hear what it was." Ron didn't answer. "Well, if you don't care to repeat it, I happen to have recorded it. Let's all listen." Ron eyes widened in horror as his whispered words were repeated back for all to hear.

"— HE DEDUCTS POINTS FROM ALL THE OTHER HOUSES AND GIVES OUT DETENTIONS WHENEVER HE CAN —" Ron's amplified voice swelled through the room, then cut off.

"How very astute of you and your brothers to notice," Snape retorted sarcastically. "Another ten points from Gryffindor." Ron slumped, covering his face in embarrassment. The rest of the class stared at each other, dumbfounded. Was _this_ what they could expect from Snape's classes?

Harry had had about enough of this. "Professor, this isn't right!"

Snape stared down his prominent nose at Harry. "You disapprove of my classroom style, Mr. Potter? I'm afraid that is not up to you. I run my classes the way I see fit, and neither you, nor any student, can do anything about it!"

"But _I_ can," a voice whispered in Harry's ear.

A moment later the hood on Snape's head suddenly flew back, revealing his head of hair. And _what_ a head of hair it was!

Snape's head was covered in long, luxurious golden curls that flowed down to his shoulders. His hair shone with an almost ethereal luster, like — well, like _magic_. Or rather, witchcraft.

"Oh my gosh!" Lavender burst out. "His hair looks even nicer than Gilderoy Lockhart's!" Parvati, Fay and even Darla burst into laughing agreement.

 _Who the hell is Gilderoy Lockhart_? Harry wondered, but he was too busy laughing at Snape to really care at the moment. Snape, realizing his hood had fallen back, tried to grasp it and pull it back over his head, but his entire cloak suddenly disappeared, leaving him with no way to cover his head. He looked about the room for a panicked moment, then seemed to recover, if not his dignity, at least enough of his wits for a strategic withdrawal. "Class is over," he announced in a flat tone, then quickly exited the room.

It was several minutes before everyone regained enough composure to gather up their book bags and leave the Potions classroom. "Coming, Harry?" Ron grinned at him as he stood, ready to leave. "I guess we can head to lunch now."

"Be right behind you," Harry said, pretending to slowly gather his books. Ron nodded and left the dungeon classroom with the others.

"Thanks, Uncle Arthur," Harry said, looking upward. Even though he couldn't sense his uncle, he knew he must be here somewhere.

Arthur appeared. "Don't mention it, Harry," he chuckled. "Goldilocks there has been cruising for a bruising since we met. And since his hair seems to be his sore point —"

"How long are you going to leave him like that?" Harry wondered.

"Oh, I don't know." Arthur studied the ceiling for a moment. "A week or so, maybe, until he comes down off his high horse. Actually, I think his new 'do is quite an improvement," he snickered. "I should open up a hair salon here. That might be a bit cliché, though…"

"Well, anyway, thanks again," Harry said, picking up his book bag. "Guess I'll join the others for lunch." He started for the exit.

"Don't forget your lessons tonight," Arthur reminded him.

Harry stopped, dropping his head wearily. "Can we start tomorrow, Uncle Arthur?" he asked, pleadingly. "My first two classes gave me reading and questions to answer already —"

"Sorry, kiddo," Arthur shook his head. "A deal's a deal." A deck of cards appeared in his hands, and he spread his arms, spraying the cards into the air; they all flew into the palm of his other hand. "No stacking the deck just for you."

"Fine," Harry grumbled. "Where and when?"

"Don't worry," Arthur grinned mischievously. "I'll find you when it's time." He vanished.

 _Great_ , Harry thought. Now even Arthur was being coy about his lessons. He trudged into the dungeon corridor, back up to the entrance hall, then crossed over and into the Great Hall, where he joined the other first-years at the Gryffindor table. They were the only students in the Great Hall except for some older students who had free periods.

The morning hadn't gone too bad, Harry thought, sitting down next to Ron. Professors Sprout and Flitwick were decent teachers, and Snape — well, it had been a pleasure watching Uncle Arthur embarrass him. Now he just had to make it through the rest of today's classes, plus whatever Arthur had planned for him. As long and as boring as the trip here from London had been, Harry figured, today was bound to be even worse.

 **=ooo=**

Quirrell entered the Great Hall quite inconspicuously, hoping to avoid notice by student and staff alike. He entered through the antechamber in the northeast corner, a much more inauspicious entrance than the grand double-oaken doors leading in from the entrance hall. He made his way over to the High Table, taking his customary chair — the second from the far right as he faced the students.

Quirrell did not like being here. If he'd had a choice, he would have stayed in his quarters and ordered a house-elf to bring him food and drink. But his Master wished him to appear in public, to speak with the other staff members about their participation in Dumbledore's "experiment" in the third-floor corridor.

And he had done this, speaking mostly with the women teachers after staff meetings and at odd moments in the mornings and evenings. Women were more interested in discussing such things, he had found. Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was also a friendly fellow (for a half-goblin, Quirrell noted) who enjoyed talking about his contribution to Dumbledor's so-called "experiment" — he had devised a room full of flying keys, one of which unlocked the door leading to the next test. A student trying to get to the next room would have to figure out which key was the correct one. Flitwick had provided a clue to the right key, however: it was the only silver one — all the others were bronze or brass. There was also an old broom in the corner that the student could use to fly up and catch the correct key.

So far he had not divined which of the other teachers had helped in preparing the other tests. He was certain both Professors McGonagall and Snape had their hands in one of each of the rooms, and he already knew the first room contained a hellhound, thanks to Potter and his friends' foolish efforts to discover what was in the third-floor corridor. He would have to continue to question the other teachers to discover what other rooms and other tests there were to conquer before reaching his objective.

A hand suddenly draped across his shoulder, making Quirrell start violently. "How's it going, Bunkie?" Arthur asked him, chuckling. "Are you having fun yet?"

Quirrell tried to flinch away, but Arthur's arm held him solidly in place. "Oh — it's y-you," he muttered, then looked away, back to the meager portions of food on his plate.

"Well, you don't have to get all choked up about it," Arthur retorted sarcastically. "I thought we had a nice time at the feast the other night."

"I'm—I'm t-trying to eat a m-meal here," Quirrell said, wishing the strange wizard would just go away. He wasn't even a real teacher here, just Potter's tutor!

But, he remembered he had been ordered by his Master to learn more about this wizard, to gain the secrets of the advanced capabilities he had demonstrated — the ability to Apparate in and out of an Anti-Apparition Jinx, to perform advanced Transfigurations without a wand, and, if rumors he heard from the staff yesterday were true, to turn himself into a double of Harry Potter without using Polyjuice Potion. Powers like those would indeed be useful to his Master, once he had recovered the Philosopher's Stone from where Dumbledore had hidden it and restored his body to normalcy.

"S-so," Quirrell addressed the strange wizard, trying to make his change of tactics appear spontaneous. "Y-you seem t-to be quite adept at m-magic," he commented. "Where d-did you at-attend school?"

"Oh, I was sort of a home-study child," Arthur grinned. "My sisters and I are mostly self-taught, in fact — our parents thought it engendered more interest in learning than just assigning reading and homework problems."

"Yet, h-here you are, teaching Mr. Potter in just such a way as what your parents avoided," Quirrell pointed out. "Did you decide guided education was a superior methodology?"

"Things are a little different here," Arthur said. "This is not the place where I grew up."

"You mean B-britian?" Quirrell asked.

"I mean Earth," Arthur chuckled.

Quirrell stared at him in confusion. "I don't understand," he said.

"Don't worry about it," Arthur said, with a consoling pat on his arm. "I don't expect you to." He rubbed his hands together. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for drinks with a friend." He vanished.

Quirrell stared at the spot where Arthur had been for some time. A very unusual wizard, he thought to himself. Yet, with such power at his disposal, striking up a friendship with him was imperative if he was to plumb the man's secrets and take them for his own. If necessary, he knew, his Master would possess the man directly, to take the secrets from his mind and leave him a lifeless husk afterwards. He resumed eating, but was interrupted after only a few seconds by the arrival of another teacher.

A cloaked and hooded Professor Snape sat down next to him, putting a hand on his arm to stop him from eating. "What were you and that — that _person_ — talking about?" Snape demanded.

"N-nothing," Quirrell shook his head. "We were just exchanging p-p-pleasantries."

"Don't lie to me, Quirrell," Snape warned. "You don't have the face for it. You're as transparent as a child caught with his hand in the biscuit jar. What did you talk about?!"

Quirrell looked the Potions Master in the eye, knowing he was opening himself to Snape's Legilimency. "I asked h-him where he had learned s-such advanced m-magic," he said, flatly.

"And?" Snape prompted.

"And he would not s-say," Quirrell replied. "He d-did make a joke, however — he s-said he was n-not from Earth. I'm—I'm not sure whether to b-believe him or n-not." Snape sneered at this.

"He seems to have taken an interest in you," Snape said. "I think we shall use that fact to our advantage. You will do everything you can to befriend this wizard, whoever he is, and find out everything you can about him. Then report back to me."

Since that was already part of Quirrell's orders from his master, he nodded agreement. "I-I will, S-severus," he said, looking away from the Potions Master.

"See that you do not fail to report _everything_ to me," Snape said severely, then turned and strode away, leaving Quirrell alone on his side of the High Table. It was obvious to Snape what was going on here.

The person pretending to be a powerful wizard calling himself Arthur, coming into the castle and tutoring Harry Potter in specialized magic, was in reality the Dark Lord, somehow returned from the grave, something he had always boasted he could do, though he had never explained how. He very likely had the Potter boy Imperiused or otherwise controlled, and was looking for something the Headmaster had brought into the school at the end of July, the day of the break-in at Gringotts. Whatever it was, the Dark Lord evidently coveted it, and would risk entering Hogwarts itself to obtain it. Snape had his own ideas on what that object was, but he was taking a wait-and-see attitude until the item was revealed. The Headmaster was no doubt taking all precautions to insure that whatever it was, it would not be easy to win from wherever he had secreted it in the final chamber below the school, assuming that was indeed where it was.

Quirrell was meant as a distraction. It was obvious Dumbledore thought Quirrell was somehow in league with the Dark Lord, but he was too timid, too nervous and retiring to be the Dark Lord in disguise. Snape's Legilimency had revealed no other presence in the Defense professor's mind. He would have Quirrell watch Arthur closely and he in turn would watch Quirrell closely as well.

Snape reached up, making sure the hood covering his head was secure. Until he figured out some way to turn his hair back to its original color, he would not allow anyone to glimpse it. Gilderoy Lockhart, indeed! A low growl escaped Snape's throat as he thought of that attention-hungry showboat who was currently capturing the attention of the wizarding world with his so-called "adventure books." There was even talk that Lockhart was under consideration for the Defense position next year, once Quirrell was gone, in spite of Snape's requests for the position. It would be a cold day indeed before that poseur was allowed to set foot in the halls of Hogwarts!

Watching Snape walk away, Quirrell smiled to himself. _Don't worry, Snape_ , he thought. I _'ll tell you everything_ I _think you need to know_.

 **=ooo=**

The topic at lunch that day focused entirely on the classes the first-years had attended that morning. "I found them all quite enjoyable," Hermione was saying to her dorm-mates, who were listening with varying degrees of attention and agreement.

Fay Dunbar was shaking her head. "Herbology was icky," she said, wrinkling her nose. "All that dirt…"

"What's wrong with a little dirt?" Lavender spoke up. "All those plants were really _pretty_ , I thought. It will be fun growing them! My mum keeps a garden so now I can help her with it!"

"I like Charms," Darla said. "I've been reading through the book and there are a lot of useful charms near the back, especially the ones for cleaning and clearing off stuff. My mum is always complaining that my room looks a mess."

"You won't be able to use them at home, though," Hermione pointed out. "We are not supposed to use magic out of school."

"No, that's not right," Lavender disagreed, nibbling on a celery stick. "My dad's helped me learn a few spells this summer after I got my wand."

Hermione was shaking her head. "When I got my wand, Professor McGonagall told me I was not to use it until I came to school, that if I did the Ministry would know and I would be penalized."

"That's because you're Muggleborn," Lavender retorted. "You're not supposed to do magic in front of Muggles."

"But they're my own parents!" Hermione exclaimed. "They _know_ I'm a witch! It doesn't make sense that I wouldn't be able to perform magic in front of them!"

Ron and Harry were watching this exchange as they ate their lunch. Ron leaned close to Harry and whispered, "Fred and George practice magic all the time during the holidays, nothing's ever happened to them."

"I wonder why," Harry muttered, chewing on a roll. "What's so different between your house and Hermione's?" Ron shrugged and went back to his meal.

The discussion about performing magic out of school came to a sudden halt with a snort of derisive laughter. Draco Malfoy and his two "goons," Crabbe and Goyle, had stopped at the Gryffindor table. "Don't you know anything?" he sneered at the girls. "That's the advantage of being pure-blood — _we_ can practice magic anytime we want." He grinned smugly. "I got my wand at the beginning of June and I've been using it quite a bit at home. I've got most of the spells memorized already."

"So have I," Hermione responded. "Can you tell me what spell is on page 83 of the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade One_?

Malfoy's smiled disappeared. "I—" he looked like he'd been caught out for a liar, then recovered. "I didn't bother to remember what _pages_ they were on!" He pointed a finger accusingly at her. "I don't think you have, either!"

"Oh, yeah?" Hermione smirked at him in a superior way. "Try me."

"Fine!" Malfoy snapped. He turned to Goyle. "Get my Charms book out of my book bag." Goyle opened one of the book bags he was carrying and handed a book to Malfoy. "Alright, then, Miss Know-It-All," Malfoy sneered, leafing through the book. "What's the second spell on page 77?"

"It's the Bluebell Flames Charm," Hermione answered immediately. Draco frowned. Evidently that was the correct answer, Harry thought, smiling.

"A lucky guess," Draco muttered. He flipped several pages. What's the third charm on page 95?"

"There are only two charms on that page," Hermione said, shaking her head at him. "The Hot-Air Charm and the Flame-Freezing Charm." Her expression grew even more smug. "It appears you don't know as much as you think you do, Malfoy."

Malfoy's face turned red. He took a step closer, looming over her. "You think you're so smart, don't you?" he snarled, in a voice that was barely audible. "Well, you're nothing but a filthy Mudblood!"

The other girls around the table gasped. So did Ron. Harry didn't know what a Mudblood was, but it didn't sound good. He stood. "Why don't you clear off, Malfoy?" he said, in no uncertain terms.

Malfoy only sneered at him. "Oh, coming to her rescue, are you, Potter? Is she your girlfriend or something?" he leered.

"She's my friend," Harry retorted. "And you're being an arse."

"Watch your mouth, Potter," Malfoy said, threateningly. Both Crabbe and Goyle were staring at him, cracking their knuckles as they did. Malfoy leaned over the table toward him. "Want to put your wand where your mouth is? How about a wizards duel?"

Harry laughed. With his witchcraft he could defeat Malfoy in a duel in five seconds. "It's probably against the rules, but I ought to take you up on that," he sneered. "Or maybe you're a pure-blood so you can do whatever you want, is that it?"

"Scared?" Malfoy sneered in reply. "I've been casting spells for three months now. How long have _you_ been practicing?"

"Long enough," Harry retorted. "Where, and when?"

The table around them went suddenly silent. "Let's meet in the Trophy Room at midnight," Draco declared. "We can each bring two seconds to help oversee the duel. My seconds are Crabbe and Goyle."

"Our curfew is nine p.m.," Harry pointed out. "No use risking getting caught by Mr. Filch." Filch was the caretaker of the school, a rather unpleasant older man who walked with a hunch and continually complained that students today were coddled and pampered, not like in his day. He also had a dust-gray cat named Mrs. Norris that could sneak up on you whenever you put a toe out of line. She would then whisk off and Filch would be there seconds later to catch you.

"Right," Malfoy said, triumphantly. "Any excuse to get out of losing a duel, Potter! I knew you were chicken."

"I'm not chicken," Harry retorted. "If you don't want to do it at 8:30, let's just forget the whole thing." He waved at Malfoy dismissively and sat down.

Malfoy's face was getting redder and redder. "Alright!" he snapped. "Eight-thirty in the Trophy Room! Be there or everyone's going to know you chickened out!" He whirled and stalked away, Crabbe and Goyle following.

The moment they were out of earshot Ron clapped Harry on the back. "That was brilliant, Harry! Can I be your second?"

Hermione was less enthusiastic. "Harry, have you forgotten your promise already? We were going to stay out of trouble and earn our House points back!"

"Don't worry," Harry said confidently. "I won't get caught this time."

"Isn't that what you thought when we left the third-floor corridor?" Hermione retorted tartly. "Harry, you _cannot_ go through with that duel! Malfoy is tricking you, somehow!"

"Oh, I'm sure he _thinks_ so," Harry said, unconcernedly. "But I might be tricking _him_ , did you ever think of that?"

" _How_ are you tricking him?" Hermione demanded, her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest. "If you don't show up, he can tell everyone in school you chickened out! If you _do_ show up, you could get into trouble for agreeing to duel him!"

"How do you know we can't duel at Hogwarts?" Ron demanded.

"I memorized all the school rules," Hermione told him. "Underage students can't engage in wizard duels."

Ron shook his head. "Figures you'd know all the rules already," he muttered.

"I've got it figured out, Hermione," Harry assured her. "Just don't worry about it. And I'm going alone," he added, to Ron. "There's no use you getting hurt if Crabbe and Goyle make trouble."

"What about _you_?" Ron worried anyway. "Without any seconds it's three-to-one against you. There's no telling what kind of spells Malfoy knows, if he's had all summer to practice!"

"Let me worry about that," Harry said. He pushed away his plate and checked his watch. "Looks like it's almost time for our next class."

 **=ooo=**

At the High Table, McGonagall and Dumbledore watched the group of first-years gather up their book bags and head off to class. McGonagall's face was set in a grim expression. "This is becoming ridiculous, Albus," she said in a low voice, as Dumbledore canceled the spell that let them hear what the students were saying. "Barely through lunch the first day of classes and already there's a duel between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin! They couldn't even wait a week or two for everyone to get settled in!"

"It is in their nature, Minerva," Dumbledore murmured in reply. "Slytherins cannot resist issuing challenges and Gryffindors never back down, as you well know."

"Yes," McGonagall sighed. "But _those two_ boys… If we punish Mr. Malfoy for challenging Mr. Potter, his father will apply pressure with the board of governors. And if we punish Mr. Potter, it looks like we are giving preferential treatment to the Slytherins against the Boy-Who-Lived. You know that's Severus's job," she added, with not quite a smile on her face.

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied, not quite agreeing and not quite denying Minerva's words, either.

"I do wish you would tell me what's going on with Mr. Potter and that 'tutor' of his," Minerva reiterated, for perhaps the twelfth time since classes began.

"I wish I could as well," Dumbledore replied, honestly.

"So what's stopping you?" Minerva demanded.

Albus turned to her, a wry smile on his lips. "Magic," he said.

McGonagall snorted skeptically. "Have it your way, then. But what shall we do about this duel between Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter? We can alert Filch to watch for them near the Trophy Room."

But Dumbledore shook his head. "I will deal with it, Minerva," he told her. "I intend to make this a learning moment for both boys." _And for myself as well_ , he added silently. If young Mr. Malfoy had been practicing magic for the past three months, he should have quite a few spells that would be useful in a duel, hopefully none with any lethal or lasting effects.

What he knew about Harry, however, led him to believe that Mr. Malfoy would have almost no chance of winning a duel against him, and he was curious to see how Harry would handle the situation. Would he take advantage of his advanced magic skills? What would he do to Mr. Malfoy once it was obvious he could not win the duel? These were questions that intrigued Dumbledore.

If Harry had been willing to go down the trap door in the third-floor corridor, after somehow defeating Fluffy (the rather incongruous name Hagrid had given the hellhound) his magic must be formidable indeed!

 **=ooo=**

History of Magic, the first class after lunch, was an unmitigated disaster.

The teacher, Professor Binns, turned out to be a _ghost_. At first that seemed rather cool, having a ghost teach a class. Professor Binns had passed into the History classroom through back wall, up the middle of the room and through the desk at the front, then turned around and nodded to the class.

Then he began speaking. It all fell apart from there.

There was no roll call taken. How could a ghost check their names off a list when he couldn't hold a quill? He made no notes on the blackboard behind him. How could he, when he couldn't even hold a piece of chalk? He simply droned on and on about the first few chapters of their History books, a book that hadn't been updated in 40 years because ghosts couldn't learn any new information, according to Hermione.

When the bell for the end of class rang, Binns stopped talking, turned, and passed through the wall behind him. The first-years stood and began gathering their books. Harry glanced toward Hermione; even she had a glazed look to her eyes that told him she'd found Binns as deathly boring as he and everyone else did. At least there was a limit to her enthusiasm for learning.

The next class was one everyone was actually looking forward to. Defense Against the Dark Arts was an important course, and Professor Quirrell, in his purple turban, looked strange and exotic, promising interesting lessons ahead for them. At least, that's what Harry hoped. He'd watched the man shrink back in terror when Arthur was speaking to him at the start-of-term Feast; however, Arthur had that effect on a _lot_ of people so that wasn't a fair test.

This was also their first double class, taking up two periods rather than one, and Harry was interested in how a double class worked. One of the other Houses would be in the class as well, though his schedule hadn't said which one. Harry dearly hoped it wouldn't be the Slytherins! He'd had enough of them until he and Malfoy met for their duel that evening.

Quirrell was sitting at his desk in the Defense classroom when they arrived. He had a rather forced-looking smile on his lips, and appeared to be trembling.

Other students were there as well; Harry recognized Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, both in Hufflepuff, who were sitting together at one of the desks. Nearby he saw Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ernie Macmillan, also sitting together. It looked like they would be having the class with Hufflepuff.

As Harry walked by Ernie the boy put out a hand, offering to shake. "Hello there, Mr. Potter. May I call you Harry?" he asked, as they shook hands. Harry nodded. "I'm glad to see we're having this class with you," he said, in an important tone. "After dealing with those Slytherins… dreadful people," he shook his head disapprovingly. "Say," he added, lowering his voice. "I heard you're having a duel with Draco Malfoy tonight. Is that true?"

"Where'd you hear that?" Harry smiled neutrally; having thought about it a bit more, he wanted to keep the duel between him and Malfoy as secret as possible. "Sounds like someone's starting more rumors."

"Malfoy was talking about it in the hall after lunch," Justin piped up. "He was saying you would try to weasel out of it." He arched an eyebrow at Harry. "I have to say, it sounds like he was right."

Harry regarded him coolly. "Yeah, well that's what you get for listening to stories from someone like Malfoy," he retorted. "He's just posturing, trying to make himself look like a big man in front of everybody." Justin and Ernie looked at each other thoughtfully. "Well, I'm going to find a seat," Harry said. He walked away and sat down between Ron and Hermione.

The bell rang for the beginning of class. Professor Quirrell took out a sheet of parchment and began to call the roll. It took twice as long as normal because there were twice as many students in the classroom. It didn't help that he kept stuttering when saying their names, either. Several students were snickering behind their hands as Quirrell called out, "P-P-P-Potter, H-harry."

"Here, sir," Harry said, raising his hand. He hoped the rest of class would go better than the roll call, though it seemed a faint hope.

Quirrell finished the roll and put away the parchment, then took a deep breath and stood, walking to the chalkboard as he took out his wand and wrote his title and name on the board. "I am Professor Quirinus Quirrell, he told the first years. "I am l-looking forward to instructing you in Defense Against the Dark Arts, one of the m-most important courses at this school. C-can anyone tell me the importance of D-defense Against the Dark Arts in w-wizarding society?"

Hermione's hand was immediately in the air. Quirrell pointed to her. "Professor, Defense Against the Dark Arts is used to protect ourselves from Dark wizards and defend ourselves against attacks from Dark creatures such as werewolves, hags and boggarts. The course is also a way of teaching wizards to duel effectively, especially in formal duels that are not to the death, according to the textbook, _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_."

Quirrell was almost smiling by the time Hermione finished. "Well, said, Miss— er, Granger," he said, glancing at the roll sheet. "Please take five points for Gryffindor."

Hermione beamed proudly, then turned and smiled and Harry and Ron. "There," she whispered smugly. "I've got half of my points back already."

"Brilliant," Ron snorted sarcastically.

Susan Bones put up a hand. "Yes, Miss — Bones?" Quirrell pointed to her.

"Professor," Susan said, looking uncomfortable to be asking the question. "What are those — er, things, hanging over your desk?"

Harry and the rest of the class looked up. Suspended from the ceiling were three bags filled with something that had quite a pungent odor. "Oh, _that_ ," Quirrell said, with a nervous little laugh. "That is garlic."

"I see," Susan said, nodding. "Well, actually, I don't," she admitted, shaking her head. "What's it there for, please?"

"To prevent vampire attacks," Quirrell told her. "I got into a bit of a scrap with some vampires in the Black Forest of Albania, and the garlic is to prevent them from carrying out their threats against me."

Now Justin Finch-Fletchley put up a hand. "But sir," he pointed out. "You're in _Hogwarts_. Don't you think that's protection enough?"

Quirrell raised an admonishing finger. "You can never be too careful about vampire attacks, Mister, ah, Finch-Fletchley."

"Is he joking?" Ron whispered to Harry. "There's no _way_ a vampire could get into Hogwarts!"

Quirrell picked up the Defense textbook lying on his desk. "All right," he said, mustering a bit of crispness in his voice. "I would like you to spend the first hour reading chapter one from your texts. In the next hour we will separate into pairs and you will show me what you've learned."

By the end of the second hour Harry had determined that, whatever else Professor Quirrell was trying to do, he wasn't teaching them Defense Against the Dark Arts. The first chapter of the book dealt with three spells: the Curse of the Bogies, a simple spell that gave the person it was cast upon a runny nose thick with nasal mucus; the Vermillious spell, which shot red sparks and smoke from the tip of the caster's wand; and the Verdimillious spell, which shot green sparks that could be used to reveal Dark objects, or against another wizard in a duel.

All of these spells were useful enough, at least in a first-year course, but Quirrell provided absolutely no help in casting any of them. He merely watched impassively as students squared off against one another, trying the Bogies curse, which almost nobody could do at first, not even Hermione. Harry pretended to be unable to cast the spell as well; it was an unpleasant sensation to have bogeys suddenly streaming out of your nose. This went on so long that they never got to practice the Vermillious or Verdimillious spells.

"Right, then," Quirrell said as the bell rang for the end of class. "Read chapter two and answer questions one through ten at the end of the chapter. Mind you, I want at least twelve inches of parchment for your answers!"

"That was hopeless," Ron said as they left the classroom, heading back to the Gryffindor common room. "I thought Quirrell was supposed to be a good teacher."

"Well," Hermione said, "in his defense this is his first year teaching the Defense class. He may have to get a bit of experience in it before he reaches his stride."

Ron looked around then gestured for Harry and Hermione to come closer. "Fred and George told me that there may be some kind of curse on the DADA position. Their first two years they had a different professor each year, and now we've got Quirrell. Percy's said about the same thing — five professors in five years. That's kind of weird, don't you think?"

Hermione looked skeptical. "I'm sure if there were a problem with the Defense position we would have heard about it by now, Ron. I've been reading the _Daily Prophet_ for the entire summer and there was never a mention of a curse on the position, even in the article announcing Quirrell as the Defense professor for the coming year. What do you think, Harry?"

"Er, I don't know," Harry shrugged. "Do you think there's a way to find out who's taught the course in previous years?"

"Of _course_!" Hermione smiled broadly. "That's brilliant, Harry! I'm going to the Library right now to see what I can find out!" And she hurried off, leaving them standing in the corridor.

Ron turned to Harry. "This place has a Library?"

 **=ooo=**

Later, after dinner, Harry sat by the fireplace in the common room, going over in his head the classes they had taken that day. Herbology with Professor Sprout had been an interesting start — she was a no-nonsense teacher, but she did have a witty sense of humor and everyone had been encouraged to participate and ask questions. Even Neville had shown some interest in the various plants they'd studied.

Charms, with Professor Flitwick, had gone well, as soon as he'd gotten over his excitement at having the Boy-Who-Lived in his classroom. Harry had initially been a bit uncomfortable with that, but once Flitwick had gotten down to the business of teaching the class, he seemed to forget Harry's notoriety. Hermione, with her near-perfect memory of all the spells in the charms textbook, had been the first student to levitate a feather Flitwick had passed out to the class to practice _Wingardium Leviosa_ , the Levitation Charm. Harry had been the second student to levitate his feather, though truthfully he'd held back a bit, watching to see how the other students did. Ron had tried several times, and managed to make his feather wobble on the desk a bit, but he couldn't make it float that first class.

Potions with Snape — well, that class hadn't gone well at all. Snape was a bully, not a good quality in a teacher, and the class might have been much worse except Uncle Arthur had been invisibly monitoring them and had caused Snape's hood to fly off, exposing his luxurious head of golden hair and ending the class. At dinner Lavender and Parvati had explained that Gilderoy Lockhart was a famous wizard (right — except Harry had never heard of _any_ wizards until he came to Hogwarts) who'd written a number of books about amazing adventures he'd had with various creatures, Dark and otherwise, over the years. Right now he was supposed to be penning yet another tome — an autobiography titled _Magical Me_. After hearing about him, Harry decided Lockhart was one wizard he never needed to meet.

After lunch there was History with Professor Binns. The less said about that class, the better. Harry was already planning on doing his other homework in that class, which was the prevailing attitude for just about every student who wasn't a die-hard magical history buff. Fortunately, Hermione was in that short list, so Harry planned to ask her to fill him and Ron in on what they'd need to know for any upcoming quizzes — assuming Binns ever gave any.

Defense, with Professor Quirrell, had been the big disappointment of the day. It was clear that students had held out high hopes for the new professor — he had been an excellent Muggles Studies professor, according to the older students, and everyone had expected that to continue in his new class.

But Quirrell had been too timid, too aloof, and seemed content to merely watch students find their own way during the practical portion of the class. He was not going to be an effective teacher at all.

Of course, Harry reflected, he hadn't gotten any education on his _other_ magical studies, either, nor of the regular schoolwork he was supposed to take as well. Uncle Arthur had made himself pretty scarce after lunch — Harry wasn't sure when his other studies would begin. Right now he was hoping they could wait a little longer, at least until he had his duel with Draco Malfoy.

He was beginning to rethink the confrontation with Malfoy. Hermione might be right — the kid might be trying to trick him into showing up someplace, then claim Harry was the one who'd challenged _him_ to the duel. At least the duel would take place before the first-year curfew; if Malfoy didn't show, then as long as Harry got back to the common rooms before 9 p.m., he'd be okay.

If Malfoy _did_ show up, Harry probably should try to talk to him rather than fight. Even though the bloke had been rather rude to him and Ron on the Hogwarts Express, he _had_ extended a hand in friendship, in his own way. Harry couldn't discount that. It couldn't hurt to extend an olive branch in return, could it?

Harry glanced at his watch. It was 8:15; soon enough for him to think about heading down to the Trophy Room and wait for Malfoy. Harry glanced surreptitiously around the room. The other students there seemed to be studying or engaged in their own conversations, but Harry caught a few covert glances in his direction. The rumor of his and Malfoy's impending duel had spread like wildfire. All afternoon students had been wishing him luck or clapping him on the back and telling him to give Malfoy hell. If he got to the Trophy Room and found it full of students waiting to watch the duel, he wouldn't have been a bit surprised.

Uncle Arthur suddenly appeared in the chair across from him, invisible to everyone else in the room. "Hey, Champ," he said, grinning. "How's my little duelist doing?"

"Fine," Harry muttered. "I guess you heard."

"Of course I heard!" Arthur straightened, looking at him intently. "Why, we take affairs of honor quite seriously, Harry! I remember one time I fought a duel with Ben Johnson over a rather comely young lady we were both smitten with. We used swords rather than guns, mostly because flintlocks hadn't even been invented back then, and Johnson did quite well for a mortal." Arthur's expression fell. "As it turned out, she wasn't interested in either of us — she took up with a young rake named Gabe Spenser. I heard later that he and Johnson had a duel of their own, and Spenser didn't fare nearly as well against Johnson as he did with the girl."

At that moment their conversation was (unwittingly) interrupted as Hermione and Ron, leading a number of other Gryffindor students, marched up to where he was sitting. "Harry, we need to talk," Hermione said, crossing her arms resolutely.

Harry stood. "I hope it can wait a few minutes, I have an appointment—"

"That's what we're here about," Hermione interrupted. "You can't have that duel with Malfoy."

Harry gave Ron an annoyed, inquiring look.

"I tried to tell her, Harry!" Ron told him. He gave her a furious look. "It's none of your business what Harry and Malfoy do! Practically the whole school is waiting to see how this duel turns out!"

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "It's not really your — wait, what? The _whole school_? Ron, are you serious?" This was getting ridiculous!

"Fred and George have got a pool going on how long it'll take the Boy-Who-Lived to mop up the floor with Malfoy," Ron said. Somewhere behind him, Fred and George were giving Harry enthusiastic thumbs-up. "Um, I'm in for a minute and a half to two minutes," Ron added, quietly.

Harry covered his face with his hand. "Getting a bit out of control, isn't it, kiddo?" Arthur commented from his chair.

"What am I gonna do?" Harry said aloud to Arthur, though Hermione took it as a request for help.

"We can report Malfoy to Professor McGonagall," she suggested. "You don't have to go up against him and his friends. I'll go get her and we can—"

Hermione suddenly stopped speaking. Harry stared at her. She was still, unmoving. In fact everyone in the room had stopped moving. "Uncle Arthur," Harry began.

"Leave it to me, kid," Arthur said. "I'll fix things." He vanished.

Everyone started moving again, then turned as the portrait hole opened and Arthur stepped through. He walked up to Harry. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Potter. It's time for your first lesson."

"What?" Ron said, shocked. "No!"

"I'm afraid so," Arthur said, giving Ron a disdainful glance. "He's well behind in his studies already — we can't afford to waste another minute."

"Are you sure?" Harry said, almost whining as he played along. "I was supposed to be somewhere at 8:30."

Arthur gave him a supercilious look. "Ah, that silly duel you were supposed to have? Rubbish! You have much more important things to do! Now come along, my lad, I've got a room picked out for you to study in—" he looked around the room at the other students "— _without_ any interruptions. Do I make myself clear?" Everyone took an unconscious step backwards as Arthur glared at them, nodding. "Good," Arthur said. Taking Harry by the arm, he led him out of the portrait hole.

Once outside, Arthur nearly collapsed with laughter. "Did — did you see the looks on their faces?" he chortled as he and Harry walked down the corridor away from the common room. "I thought your girlfriends eyes were going to bug out of her head!"

"She's not my girlfriend," Harry said in a flat tone. Arthur leered at him. "Well," Harry amplified. "She's my friend, and she's a girl, but she's not —"

"Yeah, yeah," Arthur waved off the rest of his reply. "Been there, heard that, got the commemorative shot glasses."

"So where are we going?" Harry asked.

"To your duel, of course," Arthur smiled. He stopped, then took Harry's arm, glancing at his watch. "We better get a move on, too — it's almost 8:30." He snapped his fingers and he and Harry vanished.

 **=ooo=**

The Trophy Room, on the third floor of the castle, was a large room with rows and rows of shelves filled with trophies, plaques, award cups, plates and medals on every wall and in innumerable cases set in no identifiable pattern throughout the room. The walls were lined with pennants from school activities of previous years as well as tapestries commemorating significant events in Hogwarts past — notably, one showing the first Tri-Wizard Tournament, held in 1294.

Harry and Arthur appeared, invisible, in the corridor outside the Trophy Room. Peeking into the room, Harry saw that Malfoy and his two toadies, Crabbe and Goyle, were already there. Malfoy was saying something to Crabbe and Goyle, who were in turn nodding and laughing. "Well, they're here," he said, turning back to Arthur.

"And here comes someone who I suspect wants to catch you in the act," Arthur said, pointing down one corridor. Harry saw the caretaker, Filch, limping in their direction. At his side was Professor Snape, striding determinedly alongside him. Harry groaned.

"Don't worry about them," Arthur said with a devious smile that reminded Harry of Endora. "I can keep them off your back. How are you going to play this? Are you going to try some wand work or just go with your basic witchcraft?"

"Er, I was actually thinking I might try to reason with them," Harry said. "It's kind of pointless to keep up this stupid Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry everyone keeps talking about."

"Oh, going the 'sweetness and light' way, eh?" Arthur looked skeptical. "Good luck with that, kid." He poked a thumb toward the entrance. "Go get 'em, Harry." Harry nodded and went inside.

"Now to handle these bozos," Arthur said to himself, as Filch and Snape neared the doorway. He made a blocking gesture with both hands, then vanished from the corridor.

Snape and Filch stopped at the doorway. "I can hear 'em inside," Filch growled in a low voice. "Blasted students! Don't have an ounce of respect for authority anymore! I hope you're gonna throw the book at 'em, Professor Snape!" Filch had been itching to hand out some punishment all afternoon, ever since he'd overheard students talking about the impending duel. He'd enlisted the aid of Professor Snape, a man he knew would stand for no such foolishness from students, excepting perhaps those in his own house. But at least Filch would be assured of _some_ students he could punish, hopefully before the Headmaster heard and put an end to it.

"I will do what needs to be done," Snape promised. And in Potter's case, if he couldn't wrangle an expulsion for the arrogant brat, he would certainly mete out a detention worthy of James Potter's offspring. "Follow me, Mr. Filch." He and Filch strode through the doorway—

—and back into the corridor from which they had just come. The two men stopped short, looking around the corridor in confusion. "Wha—" Filch muttered, annoyed. "What damned magic is this?"

"We are back in the corridor we just came from," Snape muttered, looking back through the doorway they had just tried to enter. He took hold of Filch's arm. "Let us try backing through the doorway."

That didn't work, either. They found themselves backing out of the Trophy Room. Snape stared at the doorway in frustration for several seconds, trying to divine a way around this unusual spell. "Quickly," he said, hurrying away down the corridor. "We will enter through armor gallery, on the other side." Filch cursed to himself and hobbled off after the Potions Master.

Inside the Trophy Room, Harry walked slowly among the cases of cups and plaques, letting his footsteps echo hollowly. He wanted Malfoy and his mates to hear him coming. The three of them were standing in an open area formed by several trophy cases facing one another, cases holding school plaques from past years. "Well," Malfoy sneered as Harry stepped into the opening. "You made it, Potter. We were beginning to wonder, worrying you might not make it."

"I'm sure you were worried about _me_ ," Harry replied, sarcastically. "Not."

"'Not' is right," Malfoy said. He squared off, facing Harry, and took out his wand, holding it at his side. "Are you ready to do this, Potter?"

Harry made no move toward his wand. "We don't need to do this, Malfoy. It's not going to prove anything."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him, then grinned triumphantly. "Oh, it'll prove something, all right. It'll prove you're nothing but a fake, a façade that parents tell their children about to keep them from being afraid." He pointed an accusing finger at Harry. "It'll prove that your parents were _wrong_ to go against the Dark Lord, and that everything that's been said about you is a lie!" Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle were grinning and nodding agreement.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. Malfoy clearly wanted to go through with this duel. Why wouldn't he? He was sure he had the upper hand, with his two seconds behind him. Well, Harry wasn't going to put up with anyone bad-mouthing his biological parents. "You're wrong, Malfoy. My parents died protecting me from Voldemort."

Malfoy flinched. "Don't say his name!" he hissed. "You're not allowed!"

"I'm not?" That struck Harry as funny. "I wonder why not, then? Maybe if I say it over and over he'll appear, like Beetlejuice."

"Like who?" Malfoy shook his head, confused.

"It's a movie," Harry said. "I saw it on HBO a while ago."

"HBO?" Malfoy echoed, still perplexed.

"Never mind," Harry smirked. "Or actually — Voldemort! Voldemort! Voldemort!" He looked around the Trophy Room. "I guess he's still dead, then."

"Potter, I'm warning you," Malfoy raised his wand threateningly. "Stop saying his name or I'll—!"

"You'll what?" Harry challenged. "Don't let your mouth make a promise your arse can't keep, Malfoy."

Malfoy's face reddened with rage. "Here's a promise for _your_ arse!" he shouted. " _Stupefy_!"

A bolt of red magic erupted from Malfoy's wand, flying toward Harry almost as fast as an arrow. But as fast as it came, Harry's hand was suddenly in front of him, his wand out and ready. But he didn't even bother with a wand spell. He simply flicked the wand like a bat, and the red bolt ricocheted away, striking a wall and fizzling as the room's enchantments absorbed it.

"You can't beat me, Malfoy," Harry sneered at him. " _I've_ been practicing magic, too, and I'll bet I know more about it than you do. That's why we don't need to fight, and why you and your two mates ought to walk away."

"Walk away?" Malfoy's lip curled. "No — way! Do it!" he shouted, and both Crabbe and Goyle's wands came up as well. " _Stupefy_!" they all shouted in unison, and three bolts flew toward Harry.

Harry could have predicted this — Malfoy's goons wouldn't stay out of the duel, cheating to help Malfoy win. With a casual sweep of his arm he deflected all three Stun-bolts away from him; two of them dissipated against the floor, while a third hit a nearby trophy case, shattering the crystal glass.

"Surround him!" Malfoy shouted, and Crabbe and Goyle darted away, fast for their size, slipping among the cases to get on either side of him and form a circle, trapping him. Harry eluded that by stepping behind a trophy case and becoming invisible and intangible. Now they would see who surrounded who!

"Where'd he go!?" Goyle shouted, not finding Harry where they expected to.

"Find him!" Malfoy yelled, looking around wildly. This was out of control now, not at all like he'd envisioned: they had planned to Stun the Boy-Who-Lived and leave him in the Trophy Room, where he would be found by Filch after the first-year curfew and given detention. Everyone in school would know Draco Malfoy had done it. And Professor Snape would do nothing to him, because everyone knew the Head of Slytherin House looked after his own. But all that was unraveling, now. "Use the Revealment Charm I taught you!"

Cries of " _Homenum Revelio_!" came from among the nearby cases, as Crabbe and Goyle cast the charm. "I got nothing!" Goyle shouted. "He's gone!"

"He ran off!" Malfoy said, secretly relieved. This would be nearly as good as leaving him here. "The great Harry Potter, run from a fight!" Malfoy laughed. "That'll be what we tell everyone tomorrow!"

"No it won't," a voice directly behind Malfoy said. Draco spun around, but suddenly his wand vanished from his hand. Potter was standing there, holding it. "Got your wand," he said. "I win."

"You cheated!" Malfoy said automatically. How the hell had Potter snuck up on him like that? Invisible? Even Malfoy couldn't cast a Disillusionment Charm yet! "Give me that back!" He grabbed for his wand.

Harry held it just out of reach. "I'll give it back when you admit I won the duel, Malfoy, and that you won't say anything about it, tomorrow or ever. I promise I won't either. Deal?"

Malfoy stopped trying to grab the wand and regarded Harry with sullen surprise. He wasn't going to gloat over winning the duel? "Are you joking, Potter?"

"I said this wasn't worth it, Malfoy, and I meant it," Harry told him. Actually, he just didn't need the attention he was bound to get if Malfoy leaked the story. As far as the Gryffindors knew he'd gone off with his Uncle Arthur to study his other subjects. If Malfoy kept his mouth shut all the other houses would think the duel never happened. "So no, I'm not joking. Now do we have a deal?"

A Stunner slammed into Harry's back, causing his legs to buckle beneath him. He fell to the floor as Crabbe came up behind him, his wand pointed down at him. Caught by surprise, Harry was dazed and nearly unconscious from the effects of the stun-bolt.

Malfoy reached down and picked up his wand, which Harry had dropped. "Get him up," he said to Crabbe and Goyle. "Hold him." The two large boys dragged Harry to his feet and held him upright, immobilizing his arms with theirs.

Malfoy stepped so close his breath was in Harry's face. "Think you're pretty smart, don't you, Potter?" he sneered in Harry's face. "Well, look where it's got you now." He jabbed a fist into Potter's stomach, making him gasp. "My father told me about your parents," Malfoy gloated. "They came to a sticky end, didn't they? And that's what's going to happen to you, too, if you don't wake up and realize who and what you're up against! Hold him up," Malfoy demanded, and the two large first-years pulled Harry up so hard he was on tiptoe. "I don't want him to forget about this or who did it to him, ever!"

Watching invisibly from several feet away, Albus Dumbledore began moving toward the four boys. He had been waiting in the Trophy room since before Mr. Malfoy and his friends arrived. He'd watched, fascinated, as Harry had used his witchcraft to confound Mr. Malfoy and his friends, and was pleased to see that Harry was treating them rather benignly compared to how they might have acted had the situation been reversed. But things were much more serious now. He couldn't allow any harm to come to Harry or his powerful relatives would very likely remove him from Hogwarts. Not to mention what they might do to Draco and his friends in reprisal. Dumbledore took out his wand—

A hand on his arm stopped him. "Hold on, Dumbles," Arthur said, pulling him back. "Let the kids work this out on their own."

"But—" Dumbledore began to protest.

"Harry will be okay," Arthur said. "He's been through this kind of thing before." The ancient wizard and much older warlock turned back as Harry shook his head, clearing it as Malfoy stood threateningly over him.

"Try to take my wand, will you?" he was growling at Harry. He put his fist in front of Harry's face. "It's going to be a pleasure showing you who's in charge here." Malfoy pulled his fist back, preparing to slam it again into Harry's gut.

With his arms immobile, Harry couldn't perform the gesture he needed to invoke his witchcraft. But there was more than one way to make that happen.

Looking up at Malfoy, Harry twitched his nose just as Malfoy swung his arm forward. His fist hit Harry's stomach, but it felt like it had slammed into a brick wall. It _hurt_.

" _Ahhh_!" Malfoy cried, holding his bruised hand. It felt like his wrist was sprained. He fell back a step as Harry straightened, then turned to Crabbe and twitched his nose again. Crabbe flew back, away from Harry, until he hit a display case along a wall and stuck there, immobile.

Goyle, wide-eyed, let go of Harry's arm and tried to run, but Harry made a sharp upward gesture and he shot straight up in the air until he was pressed up against the vaulted ceiling, spread-eagled. Malfoy barely had time to register all this, however, before Harry reached out and grabbed him by his robe front. Malfoy's feet came off the ground. "Kid doesn't know his own strength," Arthur whispered proudly as Dumbledore's eyes widened in surprise.

"I ought to—" Harry drew back his hand, preparing to unleash a particularly nasty spell, but he suddenly let it drop, then set the Slytherin back on the floor. "No," he decided. "Whatever I did, you'd just twist it around so you could look like you're the victim in all of this. Well, you're not. But if you say anything bad about my parents, Malfoy, _anything at all_ , and I promise you, you will live to regret it. Now, you and your friends get out of here." Harry let go of Malfoy's front, giving him a shove as he did so. The glass case holding Crabbe let go, and the large first-year fell unceremoniously on his face.

At the same time Goyle came unstuck from the ceiling, plunging to the floor. He gave a squeak of terror as he fell, but he slowed just before he hit the floor with a _plop_ , knocking the wind out of him but not otherwise hurting him.

Malfoy backed away from Harry, then ran over to where Goyle lay. "Get up!" he hissed, and Goyle got unsteadily to his feet. They both ran over to Crabbe, hauled him to his feet, and beat a hasty retreat from the Trophy Room.

Harry looked around at the damage they'd caused. _Tsking_ , he went over to the display case one of the deflected stun-bolts had shattered. With a snap of his fingers the crystal glass flew into the air, reassembling itself, and the case was repaired. Glancing through the case to make sure it was okay, Harry's eyes fell on a trophy cup with a plaque at the bottom, reading

 _Hogwarts Quidditch Cup_  
18 June 1976

 **Gryffindor**

Sean Overton — Captain, Seeker  
Lauren Townes — Chaser  
James Potter — Chaser  
Marion MacDougall — Chaser  
Ewan Evanston — Beater  
Charles Browning — Beater  
William Waring—Keeper

It was his father's name! Harry stared in fascination at his father's name on the plaque, hardly noticing even when Dumbledore and Uncle Arthur appeared beside him. "Finally found something, huh?" Arthur softly commented.

"Yeah," Harry nodded. He looked at Dumbledore. "My father played Quidditch?"

"Quite well, in fact," Dumbledore nodded. "He was an excellent Chaser, as I recall. As you can see, Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup in his fifth year. James continued to play in his sixth and seventh years, switching over to Seeker the last year he played."

Harry stared at the cup for almost a minute more before he stood, turning to the Headmaster. "I suppose I'm in trouble for fighting," he said in a resigned voice.

But Dumbledore's expression was gentle. "You did try to alleviate the situation, Mr. Potter," he noted, a twinkle of merriment in his blue eyes. "Taking that into account, I consider that you handled things with Mr. Malfoy and his friends quite adroitly." Inwardly, he was astonished at the level of power he had witnessed in the first-year; if he could perform magic such as Dumbledore had seen here tonight, what must someone like his cousin Samantha or his Uncle Arthur be capable of? "Now, I believe your uncle has said he plans to give you some lessons before you retire for the evening." He turned to Arthur. "I trust you will have young Mr. Potter here in bed at a reasonable hour?"

"He'll be back in his room before you know it," Arthur said, patting the old wizard reassuringly on the arm. "Just don't wait up for us," he added. "I'm not sure what time the bars close around here…" he began laughing loudly. Harry rolled his eyes at his uncle's humor.

"Er, ahem, yes," Dumbledore murmured, taken aback once again by Arthur's sense of humor. "Well, carry on." He started to leave but stopped, remembering. "Oh, Arthur — will you please remove the enchantments you've placed on the doorways to this room?"

"Of course, Dumbles," Arthur said. He made a short slashing gesture with one hand. "It's done. Gotta run," he added, and he and Harry vanished.

Moments later Professor Snape and Argus Filch burst into the room. Looking around, they spotted Dumbledore and hurried over to him. "Did you catch 'em, sir?" Filch panted, clutching his chest as he breathed heavily to catch his breath.

"Catch whom, Mr. Filch?" Dumbledore inquired, blandly.

"The Potter boy!" Snape demanded, for the moment forgetting who he was talking to. "He was in here, I know he was! There was to be a duel—!"

"Calm yourself, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly. "I am aware of the rumors." He gestured to the room at large. "But as you can see, we are quite alone here."

"But I saw them come in here!" Snape hissed angrily. "Potter and that infernal 'uncle' of his! They put some kind of enchantment on the doorways!" he shrilled, pointing to the entrance he'd tried to come through. "It ended only moments ago!"

"I don't know what difficulties you experienced trying to get here, Severus," Dumbledore stated. "But I have been here for some time, and I can tell you that there has been nothing amiss here tonight. Now, I suggest that you and Mr. Filch return to whatever you were doing before trying to track down students who were never here."

Snape stared at the Headmaster for several long moments. Sensing the Headmaster's resolve not to inform him of what had really transpired, Snape nodded slowly. "As you say," he murmured, then turned and walked away.

Filch looked back and forth between Dumbledore and Snape. "An' that's _it_?" he wheezed, bitterly disappointed no one was to be punished. "The lit'le blighters get off scot-free, then?!" He grunted, but turned and followed the Potions Master from the room. "I tell you," he muttered to himself, apparently not caring that Dumbledore was within earshot. "This place is not like it used t' be. I remember the days when students hung from the ceilings for puttin' a toe out o' line!"

Dumbledore smiled at the caretaker's back. He remembered those days as well, and deplored them. Children were something to be cherished, not abused. He only wished he had taken that to heart earlier, before he learned of Harry's abuses at the hands of his aunt and uncle. Had that not happened, however, he might not have learned of Samantha Stephens and her powerful family. They could be of use in the war against Voldemort, Dumbledore had realized, if only he could find some way of inducing their help.

The Headmaster swept from the room, returning to his office, to reflect on what he had witnessed here tonight. Later, he would pay a visit to Mr. Malfoy and his friends, removing their memories of the fight and of Harry's extraordinary powers. The less they remembered about what Harry Potter was capable of, the less they could say to their parents or other adults. Dumbledore paused as he realized he was now _helping_ to conceal witchcraft from the wizarding world. He smiled at the irony.

 **=ooo=**

Harry and Arthur appeared in a corridor next to a wall tapestry of a wizard engaged in teaching a group of trolls ballet, of all things. Harry stared at the tapestry in wonderment. "What's this about?" he asked Arthur, pointing at it.

"I found you a room to study in," Arthur said, ignoring Harry's question. He pointed to the blank wall opposite the tapestry. "It's right over here," he said, and snapped his fingers. A doorway appeared, with an ornately decorated frame containing a polished oak door. On the door was a brass plaque reading "The Room of Requirement."

"An interesting room," Arthur said. "It will provide us with whatever materials we might need for your studies. It's an indication that this castle was built with witchcraft, not wand magic."

"Really?" That interested Harry. "Do you think whoever built it might still be around?"

"Maybe," Arthur shrugged. "This place is only a thousand years old or so, so it's quite possible. What I find odd is that a warlock would have helped wand wizards with this place. Normally, we left the wand wizards to do their own thing, especially since they openly practiced their wizardry at the time."

"Do you think that might be why this place is called 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?'" Harry asked. "Otherwise the name seems kind of weird."

"Perhaps," Arthur agreed. "Well, let's have a look at your new classroom." He nodded at the door and it swung open. He and Harry stepped inside.

"Wow," Harry said, looking around in awe. Even after all of the things he'd seen in the past two months, this room was brilliant. It was bigger than the largest cathedrals of Paris and London, reaching 100 or more feet in height, with vaulted ceilings and walls lined with rows of stained glass windows. It stretched far into the distance, with a large open area for practicing witchcraft. Off to one side were rows and rows of books in a labyrinth of shelves. The other side looked like a small museum of objects and items arranged in rows and rows of cases, plinths and stands. Near the door was an area set up to be a classroom environment, with a student's writing desk in front of a set of blackboards and a smaller shelf of books containing more mundane subjects such as World History, Social Studies, Mathematics and Science. Tucked in a nearby corner Harry could see a small kitchen area containing a cabinet and counter top, with a refrigerator and a microwave. Next to it were two doors marked BOYS and GIRLS, obviously lavatories.

Harry looked at Arthur with a raised eyebrow. "A refrigerator?"

"Who knows," Arthur shrugged. "I might want a cold beer after class sometime."

"Do you think I might drive you to drink, Uncle Arthur?" Harry asked, amused.

"No," Arthur smirked. "But that Snape fellow might. He's beginning to get on my nerves," he added in an irritated tone. "You know he's trying to get both of us thrown out of here, don't you?"

"I kinda figured that out," Harry said absently, still looking around. "Professor Dumbledore still wants us here, though."

"Yeah, well, he's got his own agenda," Arthur pointed out.

"I know," Harry agreed. "He's using something hidden in the castle to lure Voldemort here."

"Very good, Harry," Arthur beamed. "I see you've been paying attention to the hints he's been dropping. Do you think it's worked?"

Harry had gone over and was studying the school books on the classroom shelves. "Do you mean, do I think Voldemort's here? I don't know about that. I would like to know what Professor Dumbledore's got hidden here, though."

"The two might be related," Arthur suggested. "Old Dumbles might have something that Voldie wants, something he can use. If his body was blasted to bits, like Endora said, he'd want to get it back. For wand wizards that's going to be harder than it would be for one of us. It's a lot harder to destroy a warlock than it is a mortal or a wand wizard."

Harry nodded; he'd read up on the advantages of being a warlock. They were virtually immortal as long as they regularly practiced their witchcraft and periodically returned to the Eternal Realm to renew their witchcraft. The Eternal Realm, as the Book of Magic had explained, was a place that existed in parallel with the mortal realm, the physical world, but it was much more ethereal than reality. Warlocks and witches had originally come from there, thousands of years ago, when they'd discovered there was a realm next to theirs, where people like them lived, but in much more primitive conditions. "So are you saying Voldemort is here in the school?" Harry asked Arthur.

"He could be," Arthur agreed. "I'll tell you what," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Why don't I make that your first homework assignment."

"What?" Harry looked surprised. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I want you to figure out where Voldemort is," Arthur said. "He's somewhere within the school, I'll give you that much, and he's inhabiting someone's body. Your first assignment is to figure out who it is and explain how you know."

"Are you saying he's _possessing_ someone?" Harry was a bit alarmed at this. He pointed to his lightning scar. "You mean like he was in _me_?"

"No, not the same thing," Arthur shook his head. "He wasn't possessing you per se. That bit of him that was in you was trapped in your scar when he was blown apart in your parent's home trying to kill you.

"He's here inside someone, not exactly possessing them, but I won't say more than that. And don't worry," Arthur added. "I won't let anything happen to that person while you're trying to find Voldemort." He grinned at Harry. "Just to make things interesting, I'll give you to, say, the end of this year to figure out who it is. If you don't get it before then, we'll leave the school and you'll go back home to finish your studies for the year. Deal?"

"Don't you like it here?" Harry asked, a bit leery of making that deal. He liked being around Ron, Hermione and his other new friends.

"Eh," Arthur made a so-so gesture with one hand. "I can take it or leave it, I suppose. It's a bit dull. If it wasn't for Aretha I'd be —" Arthur cut himself off, realizing he'd said too much.

"Who's Aretha?" Harry asked, suspiciously. Arthur hadn't mentioned anyone by that name before.

"Er— Well, she's, ah—" Arthur hedged, trying to explain.

"She's your new tutor," a woman's voice said. Harry and Arthur turned to see a tall redhead, smartly dressed in a fashionably short dress and holding a teacher's pointer, standing in front of the classroom blackboard. "Hello, Harry," she said to him. "I'm Aretha. I will be instructing you in your witchcraft and mortal school subjects from today forward."

"Whoa," Harry said, letting the school book he was holding drift back onto its shelf. "I mean, h-hello," he said, with a slight bow. "I'm very happy to meet you."

"Of course you are," Aretha said, matter-of-factly. "Now that the introductions are over," she continued, tapping the student desk with her pointer. "Let us begin."

"You want to start _now_?" Harry asked. "It's past my bedtime curfew."

"Don't worry about that," Arthur said smugly. "While Aretha's teaching you, I'll be taking your place in your dorm room." Arthur's form vanished, replaced by Extra-Harry.

Harry frowned. "You're going to pretend to be _me_?"

"Don't worry," Arthur said, grinning. "I won't do anything you wouldn't' do. Probably." He raised his arms to snap his fingers and pop out.

"Arthur," Aretha said suddenly, and he paused. "You be good," She said, smacking the pointer in her hand then pointing it at him. "Don't make me use this on you."

"Don't worry, my sweet," Arthur promised. "I will be a veritable fountain of sweetness and joy to all." He chuckled cheerfully and vanished.

"That is what I'm afraid of," Aretha muttered. She turned back to Harry. "We do not have much time — your lessons must be finished by six a.m."

"Six a.m.?" Harry glanced at his watch. It was about a quarter past nine. Six a.m. was nearly eight hours away! Was he going to have to go to his Tuesday lessons with only an hour or so of sleep?

"Well?" Aretha said, pointing to the desk Harry was standing next to. "Have a seat, Harry."

Suppressing a shudder of dread anticipation, Harry took a seat. Aretha seemed a lot more like McGonagall than Uncle Arthur. It felt like it was going to be a long night, and maybe the first of a lot of long nights.

=ooo=

 **A/N: I thought I should add a few comments about the wand magic presented in this chapter. A reviewer pointed out that some of the magic is a lot more advanced than first-years performed in the canon stories. The Levitation Charm wasn't attempted in _Sorcerer's Stone_ until Halloween, and Stunning Charms are a fourth-year spell. Yes, all that's true in canon. Of course, I think Rowling was pacing her story so that the Levitation Charm was taught at the time it was relevant to the plot, not when it might be taught during the actual school year. The Levitation Charm would be one of the first charms a first-year would learn; when cast correctly, it will produce an immediate result, providing feedback to the student, and as the student practices, larger and larger weights can be attempted.**

 **In Malfoy's case, it seems like he and his pure-blood friends would have been taught spells that would be useful to them, especially for their protection. Stunning spells would be such a spell, along with Shield Charms and other offensive / defensive magic. The grade level of the spell would not be that important, especially for someone like Lucius Malfoy, who likely expects great things from his son. We know that Malfoy already knew how to fly in canon, it's likely he had a lot more instruction in spells than most first-years, especially those from non-wizarding families, who weren't allowed to practice magic at home due to the secrecy statutes.**

 **Finally, since this is an AU crossover with the _Bewitched_ TV show, and we're mixing warlocks and wizards, there will be some changes from the canon presentation of magic. The witchcraft of Bewitched is _orders_ of magnitude more powerful than canon wand magic, so the wand users as presented in this story will be somewhat more powerful than they are in the novels. That's to make the story more interesting and entertaining, not to play fast and loose with Rowling's universe. **

**Thanks for reading, and to all who've written reviews, thanks for your comments and ideas!**

 **A/N#2: In case you've seen any underlined words and are wondering WHY they're underlined, it's because I'm making updates to this chapter online and I want to be able to find them quickly so I can update my offline document.**

 **A/N#3: if you disagree that ghosts can't learn anything new, well, so do I. They can learn new things, as quite clearly evidenced by them recognizing and remembering new students and recent events. What a ghost CAN'T do is remember past events that it wasn't a part of originally. In other words, they don't know things they weren't a part of in the first place. In the case of** **Professor Binns, he could be told about current events in the wizarding world, but as he's a HISTORY Professor he would tend to dismiss them from his mind as not yet being a part of history. That would also include the 40 or more years of history that have occurred since his death. Now you know why it's so deathly boring being in Binn's class. Side note: Whenever I think of Professor Binns I envision the actor Ben Stein playing the role, as Stein has a very flat delivery that makes everything he says utterly boring.**

 **A/N#4: Changed "Harry and Ron" to "Harry and Arthur." Thanks to Vorax who pointed that out in a review.**


	7. Adventures in Portrait-Land

**.**

 **Chapter Seven**

 **Adventures in Portrait-Land**

 _Updated_ 10/10/2015

 **=ooo=**

 _6 September 1991  
_ _7:30 a.m.—_

Harry opened his eyes, tiredly blinking sleep from them.

It had been a long week, he thought, closing his eyes again with a long sigh.

For the past four days he'd attended Hogwarts classes, learning wand magic six hours a day with his fellow Gryffindors and students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin Houses. Then at night he was up until early in the morning taking instruction in witchcraft and mortal subjects like English, mathematics, science, geography and social studies, taught by his Uncle Arthur and Arthur's friend Aretha, a witch he'd known for many years.

The night lessons last until six in the morning, after which Arthur would whisk Harry back to his bed in the Gryffindor dorm room, giving him a potion that put him into a deep sleep for ninety minutes, until he woke at 7:30 relaxed and refreshed for another day of classes. At least that was how it was _supposed_ to work. In reality Harry had been waking up feeling more and more tired every day, until by this morning he was thankful it was the last school day of the week and he would be able to sleep in tomorrow!

There was a soft squeaking sound coming from somewhere near his feet. Using his witchcraft senses, Harry saw Ron's rat, Scabbers, climbing onto his bed. Harry watched curiously as the rat moved past his feet, coming towards his head. Harry feigned sleep, wondering what Scabbers was up to. He hadn't had a chance to talk to Scabbers since Ron had introduced Harry to his pet on the Hogwarts Express.

Talking to animals was something all witches and warlocks could do; the Book of Magic had informed him that animals were usually eager to speak with them, as they could sometimes provide useful information to the witch or warlock in return for rewards like food or gifts of magic. In the wand world many people kept pets like owls, which were dead useful to them for sending messages back and forth. But witches and warlocks had more direct methods of communication, so familiars like owls or cats were not that common.

Scabbers worked his way alongside Harry's body, moving towards his head. Did Scabbers have something to tell him, Harry wondered. Could something have happened to Ron during the night? Harry watched, his eyes still closed, as Scabbers came closer to his face, sniffing softly.

Harry opened his eyes. "Hi, Scabbers," he said softly.

Scabbers froze for several seconds, then nodded his head in greeting. " _Hello, Harry Potter_ ," he squeaked. " _I am very pleased to meet you_. _I did not know you could speak to animals_."

"Pleased to meet you," Harry murmured, not answering the question. "Nice of you to come visit me. Is everything okay? Are you hungry?"

The rat was looking around nervously as Harry spoke. " _Oh no_ ," it replied quickly. " _Everything is fine, just fine. I'm still quite full from last night. I was just having a…a look round_."

"I see," Harry said. Scabbers was being rather verbose for a rat, he thought. Most rats were primarily concerned with finding and eating food, but here was one admitting it had had its fill! "Is Ron okay?" he asked.

" _Hm? Oh, yes, he's fine_ ," the rat nodded. " _I was actually worried about_ you _, Harry Potter_."

"Me?" Harry was surprised to hear that. "What're you worried about me for? You're not _my_ rat."

" _I know, but_ …" the rat seemed to hesitate, as if pondering what to say. " _Well, I was over here a while ago, and you seemed much less…responsive than you are now. I thought something might be wrong_."

Scabbers had visited him before? The potion Harry took each morning put him in a deep sleep, allowing him to get eight hours of rest in only 90 minutes of actual time. During that 90 minutes Harry was aware of nothing, allowing his mind to recuperate from a full day of classes. "I was just tired from a long day," Harry said, which was the truth but not the whole truth. Actually, Scabbers should already have realized Harry was different than all of the other wizards at Hogwarts — no one else here could talk to him like Harry did, as far as Harry knew.

" _I'm glad you're okay, Harry Potter_ ," Scabbers squeaked. " _I should get back to Ron_." The rat scurried to the edge of his bed, disappearing over the side. With witchcraft, Harry watched through the curtains as Scabbers ran over to Ron's bed, clambered up the side, and settled onto a pillow near Ron's head, immediately falling asleep.

It was a strange conversation, but at the moment Harry was more interested in taking a hot shower than in being curious why Ron's rat was worried about his sleeping habits. He slipped through his bed curtains, grabbed the school clothes he'd hung out the night before for this morning, and dragged himself into the bathroom.

Some towels were missing from the towel racks next to the showers (there were two of them). Dean and Seamus had begun showering at night so they could get up just before 8 a.m., throw on their school clothes and go down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Harry had never figured out what happened to the wet towels they used — there were never any lying around in the morning when he showered. He highly doubted Dean or Seamus cleaned up after themselves.

It didn't take him long to shower, but Harry stayed, letting the warm water spray down on him for a while, giving him more time to build up his strength for the day's activities. He recalled his classes for today, and groaned to himself as he remembered the first class: Double Potions with Professor Snape, followed by Astronomy with Professor Sinistra. Harry managed a grim smile as he remembered the previous Potions class on Tuesday. Snape, his hair still a golden yellow beneath his hood, appeared briefly to assign them reading and homework, then disappeared again. They'd heard or seen nothing else from the man the rest of the week. All in all, a good week as far as dealing with Snape was concerned, Harry thought.

The other morning class, Astronomy, had been an interesting but at the same time bothersome course. Their practical Astronomy class took place at midnight on Wednesdays, which necessarily split his night lessons into two parts. That annoyed Aretha, but she did allow him to attend the class, even though she'd given him extra reading to do in social studies and geography.

Professor Sinistra was a tall, black woman with a somber, stoic disposition; Harry had rarely seen her smile during their lessons with her. She kept them busy in her daytime classes memorizing the names of stars in the night sky; during the practical class they had to locate and identify those stars in the night sky. Once again Hermione's perfect memory was a big advantage for her during these lessons, and she always handed in her assignments before anyone else, including Harry, who was usually busy helping Ron writing up his work.

The only class of the afternoon was a double History of Magic, during which Harry was planning to get his Charms, Transfiguration and Defense homework for the week completed. The last period of the day was a free one, thankfully. Harry was thinking about catching a short kip before dinner; that way he might not be so tired during his witchcraft lessons, assuming Arthur and Aretha planned on holding classes on Friday night.

His shower completed, Harry stepped out of the stall, snapping his fingers to dry himself off, then waved a hand to put on his clothes: a white shirt, black pants and black leather shoes. He made a quick gesture at his neck and a tie flew off the vanity, looping itself through his collar and tying itself in place. Glancing at himself in the mirror, Harry invoked the spell that straightened his hair, watching as it fell neatly in place. He was ready to go.

Walking back into the dorm, Harry saw Dean and Seamus's bed curtains were open and their beds empty. Pyjamas were thrown across their beds and their wardrobes were ajar; they had apparently awakened, dressed, and gone down to breakfast. Ron and Neville's curtains were still drawn. Harry walked over to Ron's bed. "Ron, get up!" he said loudly. "It's—" he glanced at his watch "—seven-fifty already!"

A loud squeaking came from behind Ron's bed curtains. "Yeah, I heard him, already," Ron's sleepy voice grumbled. "I'm up!" he said loudly. "Hang on, I'll be ready in five minutes!" The curtains flew open and Ron shot like a bolt into the bathroom.

Smiling, Harry went over to Neville's bed. "Neville, you up?" he asked.

"I'm up," Neville said a moment later. "Is Ron in the bathroom?"

"Yes," Harry answered. Neville and Ron both preferred the shower on the left; whichever of them got in the bathroom first got their pick.

The bed curtains of Neville's bed opened. Neville was wearing a bathrobe and slippers. "Rats," he muttered. "Sorry, Scabbers," he added, looking at the rat lying on Ron's pillow. A soft snore was his only response. Neville looked over at Harry. "Will you guys wait for me to go down to breakfast?" he asked.

"Sure, Neville," Harry smiled. "Take your time."

Neville smiled in reply and hurried into the bathroom. Harry sat down on his bed, trying not to think about the five hours of classes he was about to endure. He also reminded himself that he was still trying to figure out which person at Hogwarts was being possessed (or rather, occupied, according to Uncle Arthur) by Lord Voldemort. Arthur had given him until the Christmas holidays to figure out who it was. But even if he deduced who it was, how was he going to prove Voldemort was inside the person, unless he somehow got them to admit it? It was a pretty problem. Harry looked around the room, trying to distract himself.

There wasn't much in their dorm that he hadn't already noticed. It was round, of course, since they were in one of the Gryffindor towers. There were five four-poster beds spaced equally around the room, each one with a wardrobe next to it. In front of each bed (except Harry's) was a trunk belonging to the person who slept in that bed. In Harry's case he'd slid his suitcase beneath his bed. It was locked it so no one could open it and see what was inside.

There were two doors — one was the exit to the stairs that led down past the other boys' dorm rooms, down to the common room. The other was the door to the bathroom. The walls were bare stone, covered in places with rather dull tapestries showing unknown events in Hogwarts' past. Harry supposed if Hermione saw them she could tell them exactly what they depicted.

That was about it for their dorm room, there was nothing else of interest in it. Except — Harry noticed it for the first time, there was a portrait hanging above the door to the stairs. He didn't remember it being there before.

Portraits in the wizarding world were somewhat different than the ones the Dursleys or Samantha and Darrin had in their homes. The people in those portraits didn't move. The portraits at Hogwarts did. And further than that, Harry had learned, people in the portraits could move from portrait to portrait, and talk with one another, and with people outside the portraits, too, just like the Fat Lady at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room did.

That meant that the people in portraits at Hogwarts could _spy_ on you, if they wanted to. Harry could easily imagine some of them wanting to. But who? And who had hung the picture in their room?

It might have been Professor McGonagall, or one of the prefects, he thought, to keep an eye on the "ickle firsties," as Dean had said the upper years referred to them. It might be Professor Dumbledore; the picture of him on the Chocolate Frog card had nodded to him. The Headmaster had wanted him to come to Hogwarts in the first place, so it seemed reasonable he might want to keep an eye on Harry while he was here.

It might even be the person Voldemort was controlling, Harry realized. That person, whoever it was, might want to keep an eye on Harry so Voldemort would know when he was here, in his dorm. That was an unsettling thought.

Harry stood, staring up at the person occupying the portrait. He was a rather non-descript fellow in an old fashioned coat, with hair that looked like a wig: white and puffy. The portrait had noticed him staring, Harry could see; he was keeping his eyes staring straight ahead, as if intensely interested in some point high on the wall across the room from him. A small bronze plaque at the bottom of the frame was engraved with "Eodwin the Obscure." Well, the bloke _did_ look obscure, Harry thought. He was so average and non-interesting that Harry might never have noticed him if not for being bored and cranky and wanting to get out of lessons tonight.

Eodwin tried to avoid meeting the gaze of the boy he'd been ordered to watch. He wasn't supposed to call attention to himself, and hanged if he _hadn't_ , but the boy had noticed him anyway! He stared resolutely ahead, his eyes fixed on a particular stone in the wall across from him, and tried not to squirm under the boy's gaze.

"Why are you watching me?" Eodwin started — the boy's face had suddenly appeared directly in front of him! Harry had floated up from the floor to hover in front of the portrait.

"I-I-I beg your pardon," Eodwin stuttered. "Why would _I_ be watching _you_?"

"That's what _I'd_ like to know," Harry told him. "Who hung you here?"

"I'm sure I have _no_ idea what you're talking about," Eodwin objected, avoiding the question. "Would you kindly leave me alone now?"

"Busy schedule?" Harry asked, sarcastically. "Somehow I don't think so." He snapped his fingers and disappeared. Eodwin breathed a sigh of relief.

"Behind you." The portrait started and spun around, revealing the boy standing behind him, inside his frame!

"How can you be in my…" Eodwin trailed off, completely baffled by Harry's intrusion.

Harry was looking around and orienting himself to the idea of being inside a picture. He'd heard Arthur talk about it often enough — he enjoyed rattling Samantha's husband Darrin by appearing inside pictures in their home. Harry had even had some experience with it himself. When Electra got a story book for her sixth birthday, she asked Harry to read it to her one night. Halfway through the book, she said she wanted to visit the story. Harry hadn't known what she'd meant until she crossed her index fingers, wiggled them, and they found themselves _in the book_. There they met a princess named Buttercup and a boy named Westley who later became a dread pirate named Roberts, a giant name Fezzik and a Spaniard named Inigo Montoya. He and Electra had had an interesting time, and Harry discovered that you could pop into books and television shows just like you popped from place to place.

Where he was now was a curious place, indeed. From inside you could look out of the frame just like looking out a window; Harry could look down on the dorm room just as he'd looked up at the picture while he was in the dorm. You couldn't move beyond the frame, however; it was like there was a sheet of glass in front of you, just like the glass in front of each habitat at the reptile house at the zoo. Behind him and Eodwin was the backdrop of the picture, some curtains hanging in the air, though they turned fuzzy and indistinct after only a few feet. The curtains merged into passages leading away from the frame; Harry supposed that was how portraits traveled from one picture to another. "This is kind of cool," Harry murmured. "I have to check this out."

"Check this out?" Eodwin looked horrified. "What do you mean? You cannot be in my picture!"

"Why not?"

"Well — be-because," Eodwin sputtered. "You just can't!"

"Obviously, I can," Harry contradicted him. "But Ron and Neville will be done with their showers any moment now — I'm supposed to go down to breakfast with them." He pondered for a moment, then gave Eodwin a crafty smile. "I think you'll be able to help me with that."

"N-no," Eodwin said tremulously, shaking his head. "I don't think I can."

"Oh, of course you can," Harry grinned, clapping the portrait on the shoulder. "I'll show you." He gestured at Eodwin, who turned into a double of Harry.

Eodwin looked down at himself in absolute horror. "What did you do to me?" he moaned.

"Just made you into a double of me," Harry said matter-of-factly. "Now for the hard part." He made magical gestures at Eodwin as he recited:

 _Portrait of canvas, pigment and hues,  
_ _Now take on a different muse!  
_ _Instead of acting the way you ought to  
_ _You will behave like Harry Potter!_

Eodwin-Harry shook all over for a moment, then nodded in a very Harry-like manner. "Very well," he said, obediently. "I won't let you down, Harry."

"See that you don't," Harry warned him. "I'll try to catch up with you after this morning's Potions class — assuming Snape's even there. He's probably skive off again if his hair is still golden. If he's there, don't give him any reason to take off points." Harry gestured and his double vanished from the picture frame, appearing in the dorm room. As Harry watched, his double walked over and sat down on his bed to wait for Neville and Ron, both of whom emerged from the bathroom a minute later. Neville and Ron finished dressing, then all three of them shrugged into their school robes and left the dorm.

"Good," Harry murmured to himself. "Now, let's see what this place is like." He moved off down a passageway that led away from his dorm room.

 **=ooo=**

"Are you feeling okay, Harry?" Neville asked, somewhere around the third floor staircase. "You've been very quiet since we started down for breakfast."

"I'm fine," Eodwin-Harry said in a flat tone. "Perhaps I am a little tired this morning."

"Are you joking?" Ron asked, staring at him. "You went to bed at nine o'clock last night! When'd you get up this morning?"

"At seven-thirty, as I recall," Eodwin-Harry replied. "But I had a very busy night."

Ron stopped in mid-step. "What's that mean? Weren't you sleeping?"

"I—" Eodwin-Harry stopped, looking confused. He remembered belatedly that he wasn't supposed to say anything about his nighttime activities. A lie was in order here. This was difficult. As a portrait, Eodwin normally had no reason to prevaricate. "I—I was having difficulty sleeping," he murmured.

"Huh," Ron said, resuming walk down to the Great Hall. "Earlier this week you were sleeping pretty good. Yesterday morning I woke up early, 'bout seven or so, and I called over and asked if you were awake. You never answered."

"Well, that was then," Eodwin-Harry shrugged. "Tell me, Ron," he said to Harry's best mate. "Do you think Professor Snape will attend this morning's Potions class?"

"Dunno," Ron said, then cracked a big smile. "Probably not, unless his hair's back to its normal, greasy self. I'm not missing him one bit."

"Is your uncle the one who d-did that to S-snape?" Neville asked Harry.

"My uncle?" Eodwin-Harry looked blank for a moment. "Oh yes, my uncle. Uncle Arthur, that is his name. Yes, I believe he did, Neville."

"Aren't you sure?" Neville asked, sounding perplexed. Harry sounded — _off_ — this morning.

"Yeah, what's with you this morning?" Ron demanded. "You sound like a bloody portrait today!"

Eodwin-Harry turned to Ron, an offended expression on his face. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Well, just _listen_ to yourself!" Ron said, exasperated. He put on a stiff expression. "My — uncle's — name — is — Arthur," he said in a dull, mechanical tone. "He — is — my — uncle." Ron shook his head. "You sound like you've got a broomstick up your arse."

"That is _not_ how I sound," Eodwin-Harry retorted stiffly, as they reached the bottom of the grand staircase and walked across the entrance hall.

"Right," Ron rolled his eyes, pushing open the doors to the Great Hall. "We'll just ask the panel of experts." He went over to the Gryffindor table, finding a spot close to Hermione, who was sitting between Fay and Parvati. Lavender was there, too, sitting on the opposite side of Parvati. Harry followed Neville around the table to the other side.

As they were getting settled, Ron reached behind Fay and tapped Hermione on the shoulder. When she leaned back, he whispered, "Watch Harry and tell me if he's acting a bit wonky or not."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, but nodded and leaned back toward the table, glancing covertly at Harry. Beside him, Neville was putting food on his plate. Harry was just staring at his plate, as if he didn't know what it was for. _That_ was a bit odd, Hermione thought. Normally, Harry ate a pretty sizable breakfast in the morning: a couple of eggs, some bacon, some sausage, sometimes some hash browns or bubble and squeak, and a glass or two of milk or pumpkin juice. "Aren't you hungry, Harry?" she asked, after studying him for a bit.

"Hungry," Harry said. "Hmm, I'm not sure. It's been a while."

"A while?" Hermione looked confused. "You ate just last night!"

"I did?" Harry scratched his head. "I don't remember that. But I guess I'll take your word for it, um, Hermione." Harry began putting the exact same food on his plate that Neville had put on his. When he finished, he looked back and forth between his plate and Neville's, comparing them. "Picture-perfect!" he proudly pronounced. He picked up a fork and began to eat as Hermione, Ron and Neville watched him curiously.

"This is really good," Harry said, smiling broadly after his first mouthful. He began eating his breakfast in earnest, shoveling eggs into his mouth. "I don't think I've had eggs this good for centuries!"

Parvati turned to Lavender. " _What_ did he just say?" she whispered.

Lavender shook her head, smiling dreamily. "I dunno, but isn't he _cute_?"

Hermione and Ron leaned back at the same time to stare at one another. "What's _wrong_ with him?" Hermione whispered. Ron just shrugged.

Neville was staring at Harry as well. "Are y-you okay?" he asked.

"What? Oh, sure. Everything's great," Harry smiled. He scooped up the last of his eggs, washing them down with gulps of pumpkin juice. "Great breakfast. I'm glad I had a chance to try it again."

Neville looked confused. "Try what again?"

Harry pointed at his plate. "Why, _food_ , of course! It's been a while."

"That does it," Hermione muttered to herself. There _was_ something wrong with Harry! She stood up. "Harry, would you come with me, please?"

"Um, sure," Harry said, standing as well. "Er, where are we going?"

"I have a question to ask the nurse," Hermione improvised. "I thought you could come with me."

"I suppose," Harry said. "But why do you need me to go?"

Hermione hesitated a moment, then put on her sincerest smile. "I'd just like you to go with me, please."

Harry beamed at her. "Oh, okay then." Hermione picked up her book bag and walked to the end of the Gryffindor table, waiting for Harry to join her there. She took his arm and led him out the double doors, ignoring the snide remarks coming from the Slytherin table.

Ron, Neville, Fay and Parvati watched them leave. "Do you think we should follow them?" Neville asked of nobody in particular.

"I want to, but — maybe not," Ron shook his head. "Let Hermione handle it. Madam Pomfrey will take care of him — Fred and George say she's the best when it comes to fixing them up after a rough Quidditch match." He sighed deeply. "I just hope she can figure out what's going on in Harry's head."

 **=ooo=**

Harry was lost.

Getting around in "Portrait-Land" — the name he'd given the world inside picture frames, was more difficult than he'd expected. The passages between portraits seemed to be inside the walls of the castle, though they were wide enough to get about it without much difficulty. But it wasn't the same as using the castle corridors and hallways. Harry wandered around for a while, moving from one picture to the next, glancing through it to see where he was at in the castle. He'd had a mind to find Professor Snape's office, to see if he could sneak a look at it while the Potions Master was off teaching his morning class. But finding the man's office was not as easy as he'd thought it would be.

The other portraits weren't much help. Not recognizing Harry as a fellow portrait, they weren't very forthcoming about how to get to Snape's office. One portrait, a knight named Sir Cadogan, went so far as to challenge Harry to a joust, if Harry could find a pony to ride. Harry declined the offer, leaving Cadogan shouting after him that Harry was a varlet, a scoundrel and a base coward.

Finally catching a break, Harry came upon the picture frame of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, who very graciously pointed the way to the portrait in Professor Snape's office, a thin-faced woman with a sullen expression much like Snape.

"Thank you," Harry said, grateful to finally be on track to the Potion Master's office.

"Think nothing of it, my lad," Sir Nicholas said jovially. "Always happy to help a fellow Gryffindor!"

Harry stared at the man a long moment. He looked familiar, somehow— ah, the ruff around his neck! Yes, that was it! "Aren't you also a ghost?" Harry asked.

"Oh." The portrait looked chagrined. "Yes, that's what became of me, I must admit. I met a rather sticky end, I'm sorry to say."

"So you can be both a ghost _and_ a picture?" Harry marveled.

"Obviously," Sir Nicholas retorted. "But he and I don't talk — if you must know, I'm not very happy with myself. Getting my head chopped off, indeed! And I couldn't even manage that correctly!" Sir Nicholas folded his arms, looking unhappy. "Well, off with you, then, if you don't mind. I'd prefer to be by myself right now."

Harry nodded thanks and moved off in the direction Sir Nicholas had pointed him. After walking along a particularly boring passageway for a while, a corridor of nondescript gray stone, he came to a fork. Sir Nicholas had said to take the fork on the left. He did, and after trudging along for a while came to a portrait space occupied by a tall, thin woman standing stiffly in her picture, the same gray stone behind her.

In a way, the woman looked as old as Aunt Clara, only much thinner; except it was true that very few people in the world _were_ much older than Aunt Clara — those who were, weren't in the world. Those few people were still living in the Eternal Realm, the place where witches and warlocks had originally come from, thousands of years ago. Also, unlike Aunt Clara, who had a very kind, caring manner, this woman looked rather unpleasant — kind of like most of the Slytherins had looked to Harry, his first night here. But, since he was here to check out Snape's office, he'd better be polite and get to know her.

"Hello," Harry said, stepping into the frame.

The woman turned to him with a cold, penetrating stare. "Who are you?"

He almost answered honestly, but maybe that wasn't a good idea; if Snape had talked about him in front of the portrait she might not want to let him into his office. "Um, just a portrait from the other side of the castle," he said, jerking a thumb back the way he'd come. "My name's — James."

The woman still regarded him suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"

Harry shrugged. "Just out exploring a bit. You know how it is."  
The woman said nothing. "Anyway," Harry went on, after an awkward moment of silence. "May I ask your name?"

"You may ask," the woman sniffed derisively. "Doesn't mean I plan on telling you."

"Oh, okay." So much for being friendly. Well, he wasn't done trying yet. He pointed to the office outside the frame. "I heard this was Professor Snape's office. Is that true?"

"Why do you want to know?" the woman asked, even more suspicious now.

Harry put on his most enthusiastic smile. "Well, I'm a big fan of his and I was hoping he was here, so I could meet him."

"Professor Snape's been a professor here since 1980," the woman snapped. "In all this time, he's never once walked past your portrait frame?"

"Well, um, I haven't been here that long," Harry explained. That was _sort of_ the truth, wasn't it? "And I don't think he comes over to my part of the castle, anyway — none of the other portraits there remember seeing him."

"It doesn't matter," the woman said dismissively. "He's not here now, anyway — he's teaching a class."

"Oh," Harry said, sounding disappointed. "Well, could I at least have a look at his office, then?"

The woman did not look happy, but she gave an indifferent shrug. "I suppose it won't do any harm for you to have a look." She gestured at the frame. "Go ahead."

Thanking her, Harry stepped in front of the frame, looking out into Snape's office. It wasn't very big, Harry saw, nor did it look very inviting. Most of the walls he could see were covered with shelves filled with bottles and jars off — things. Rather nasty-looking things, Harry thought. There were animal parts and plants floating in potions of different colors. There was a dark, cold fireplace of gray stone, with a dusty mantelpiece above it. Off to one side was a table with stacks of books and parchment scrolls covering it.

Harry wanted to examine some of the books and parchments on the table, but doing so would expose him as capable of moving between the castle and Portrait-World, something that wizards seemed incapable of doing. There _was_ something he could do, though… he touched the picture frame, casting a spell on it. He could use that spell to lead him back to this room, much like their class schedules had led them to their classes during the past week.

"Thank you for letting me look," Harry told the woman again, who shrugged off his thanks. "I ought to be going."

"Yes, you should," the woman replied rudely. "I don't know what this place is coming to, with all manner of other pictures just traipsing through everyone's frames! It's _very_ inconvenient."

"Sorry," Harry said, heading for the passageway that brought him here. Before he could enter, however, he was nearly bowled over by another woman, this one dressed in an archaic nursing uniform, who looked excitedly at the frame's original inhabitant.

"Eileen!" she said, breathlessly. "You've got to come see! Do you know who's in the infirmary right now, this very moment?!"

The woman, Eileen, looked worried. "It's not Severus, is it?" she gasped, concern in her voice. "Wilhelmina, tell me!"

"No, no," Wilhelmina quickly replied. "It's that Potter boy!"

Harry froze. What the hell was his double doing in the _infirmary_?

"Potter?" Eileen looked furious. "That's the boy that's been giving Severus such a hard time, him and that tutor of his! What's he there for?"

"He's acting very strangely," the nurse told her. "Madam Pomfrey is trying to diagnose him right now! Hurry, we can watch from my portrait in the hospital wing!" Both women hurried out the passageway, leaving Harry alone.

He had to get to the infirmary right away. Turning the portrait of Eodwin into his double hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped. Harry snapped his fingers and disappeared from Eileen's frame, reappearing in Snape's office. From here he could pop to the infirmary — except he wasn't sure where it was at. Harry turned himself intangible and walked through the door of Snape's office. Now he could ask a friendly ghost or portrait where to go.

"Potter! _What_ do you think you are doing outside my office?!" Harry winced. Professor Snape had just come around a corner and spotted him. His hair was back to its original color, black and greasy; Uncle Arthur must've gotten bored with his Golden Boy hairdo.

Harry put on an innocent expression. "Sorry, Professor, I'm afraid I'm a bit lost," he explained. "I was about to knock on this door for directions to the infirmary when you arrived."

" _Were_ you?" Snape seemed totally unconvinced by Harry's story. "You _should_ be in my classroom _right now_ , with the rest of the dunderheads from Gryffindor."

Harry bristled at the insult, but decided it wasn't worth arguing about. "I know, sir, but I was feeling a bit…off this morning, and thought I should talk to Madam Pomfrey about it. That's what Ron suggested."

Snape crossed his arms, looking both smug and dubious. "You couldn't have done a worse job of finding the infirmary, Potter. You're still in the dungeons; the infirmary is two floors above us. Very well, we shall go to see what Madam Pomfrey has to say." He pointed a finger at Harry's nose. "And mark my words! — if there is nothing wrong with you, Potter, you _will_ receive detention." He pointed up the corridor. "Now, march."

Harry obediently followed the Potions Master along the corridor, thinking furiously. He knew where Snape's office was now, but if they got to the infirmary and found the fake Harry pretending to be him, Snape was likely to assign him detention until he was old and gray!

 _I need a little help, here_ , he thought into the ether, hoping someone was listening. _Uncle Arthur_? _Cousin Samantha_? _Aunt Endora_? _Is anybody out there_?

But there was no reply as Harry trudged along the corridor, following Snape to the entrance hall. The Potions professor led Harry into the hall, going to the grand staircase and climbing it toward the first floor.

As they approached the landing, however, they were met by a very young girl coming down. She was small and blonde, wearing a light-colored dress and black Skechers boots. Snape stopped short, staring at her in disbelief. "Hello," the little girl said, a frightened expression on her face. "Can you tell me where I am, please?"

"How did you get here?" Snape demanded, ignoring her question.

"I don't _know_!" she said, shaking her head. "I was at home with my mommy, then I was here. I want my mommy," she said plaintively, looking as if she were about to cry.

Snape was regarding the girl suspiciously. Finally he shook his head. "I don't think so, Arthur. I heard you were capable of changing your form — you are merely pretending to be a little girl to get your so-called nephew out of trouble," he sneered. "Well, it won't work."

The little girl's face scrunched up as she began to cry. "I want my mommy!" she sobbed. "You're a bad man!" She started to run away, down the stairs.

"Wait, wait," Harry stepped forward, catching the little girl before she could get away. He held her comfortingly. "Listen, little girl, we'll try to find your mommy, okay? It will be all right." He patted her soothingly on the back, looking at Snape. "Right, sir?"

Snape looked utterly bewildered and torn. The little girl _must_ be Arthur, but she was acting so much like a child no other explanation seemed credible. "Very well," he said, so softly and slowly he was almost inaudible. "We shall take the child to Professor McGonagall's office. She, hopefully, will at least be able to take charge of her. Then, Potter, you and I will continue to the infirmary."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, suddenly holding his stomach. He was beginning to look a little green. "But…maybe I could go on to the infirmary ahead of you — I seem to be feeling worse, now—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Snape cut him off. "I have no intention of allowing you out of my sight until we reach the infirmary and Madam Pomfrey confirms you are—"

Harry suddenly opened his mouth and vomited a great gush of green liquid onto Snape's robe and boots, to Snape's horrified disgust. He stared down as Harry continued to retch, watching as spurts and dribbles of liquid continued to plop onto his boots.

Harry finally stopped, spitting a last gobbet of green sick on the floor in front of Snape, almost the only bit that had missed his clothing. "Aaack," he gasped, shaking his head. "Sorry, sir, I just couldn't hold back anymore."

"Apparently not," Snape murmured, turning his nose away from the smell. He took out his wand and vanished the sick from the floor, then pointed it at his robes. The vomit on them and his shoes disappeared. He put his wand away, looking at the little girl, who was holding her nose. "Very well," he sighed. "This young lady and I will go to see the Deputy Headmistress. You, Potter, may go straight to the infirmary, and _nowhere else_." He reached into his pocket, took out a small white marble, tapping it with his wand. "This will now lead you to the infirmary. It will glow green when you are going in the right direction. It will turn red if you take a wrong turn." He handed it to Harry, then pointed an admonishing finger at him. "I expect to find you in the infirmary when I arrive there. If not, _you_ may expect to find yourself on detention until the Christmas break. Come along, child." Snape took her by the hand and led her away, up the staircase. As they left, the little girl turned and looked at Harry.

She winked.

Harry smiled, winking back at her. He had immediately recognized Tabitha's daughter Electra, of course. _Wonder what's going to happen in McGonagall's office_ , Harry thought. _But I guess I'll hear about it eventually_. _Just wish I could be a fly on the wall to see that_! In the month he'd spent at Tabitha and Michael's house, he'd learned that Electra was a lot smarter and a lot more interesting than your average six-year old. She'd shown him things about witchcraft that had amazed him, like being able to pop into books and television shows, interacting with the people there. Now he had done it on his own with the portraits at Hogwarts, going so far as to pop one of the portraits out of its frame and into the real world. That had probably not been a good idea on his part. And he was going to have to talk to Electra about that vomiting thing — she was the one who'd made him sick. A very unpleasant experience, even if it had gotten Snape off his back!

At least Electra had gotten him out of the dilemma with Snape discovering the two Harrys. He'd better go sort that out before Snape showed up there!

Harry examined the marble Snape gave him. He cast a spell on it to discover where the infirmary was located. It wasn't that far away, just up the stairs to the first floor and down a couple of corridors. Now that he knew where it was, it was a simple matter for him to pop there, becoming invisible and intangible as he did.

 **=ooo=**

Hermione led Harry up the grand staircase to the first floor, then down one corridor and another until they reached the infirmary, a large room filled with single beds, well-lit by windows all around the room, though that must be some kind of spell — they were in the middle of the castle, after all.

A couple of the beds were already occupied: a boy with wiry hair was staring them as they entered, and an older girl was asleep in the bed across from him.

"Yes, what is it?" The nurse, Madam Pomfrey, emerged from an office door. She was gray-haired but with bright blue eyes, wearing a white and red nurse's uniform. She studied both Harry and Hermione carefully. "Are either of you ill?"

"I'd like to ask a question, please," Hermione said to her. She glanced at Harry, then leaned toward Pomfrey. "I'd like to ask it in private, if you please, ma'am."

Pomfrey's eyes softened and she nodded knowingly. "Yes, my dear," she said, gesturing toward her office. "Step this way, please."

Hermione put a hand on Harry's arm. "I'll be right back, Harry," she said, then followed Pomfrey into the office. It was a relatively tiny room, with a small desk in front of a row of shelves filled with books, and another chair in front of it. There were no pictures on the wall. A cabinet filled with boxes was next to the desk.

Pomfrey pointed to the chair in front of the desk, then busied herself at the cabinet as Hermione sat down. "Um," Hermione began hesitantly. "This is about, er—"

"You don't have to say, my dear," Pomfrey said without turning around, opening two boxes and taking items from each of them. "I know what this is about. It's something that happens to many young girls about the time they begin school here."

Hermione's eyebrows shot upward. "Um, no, this is about—"

Pomfrey turned around, holding two small, white objects in her hands. Hermione realized, horrified, what Pomfrey thought she was here for. "Now, I don't know if your mother has talked with you about this," Pomfrey began. "But I want you to know there is absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about—"

Hermione was turning bright red. "No," she said quickly. "I, um, know all about — _that_." She pointed a finger at what Pomfrey was holding. "But that's not what I'm here about. It's about the boy out there. Harry Potter."

"Oh." It was Pomfrey's turn to look embarrassed. She quickly put the items back in the cabinet. "What about him? That's Harry Potter, you say?" she asked.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed. "He's been acting a bit — _strange_ this morning."

"In what way?" Pomfrey asked. "Can you describe how he's acting?"

"Just — _off_ ," Hermione said, not sure she wanted to say just how weird Harry was acting. She didn't want to get him into any real trouble, after all. Although, to tell the truth, she admitted to herself, Harry seemed more than capable of getting himself into, and out of, all kinds of trouble. "He, um, said this morning how much he enjoyed his breakfast, but he's had the same breakfast every day this week."

Pomfrey frowned. "That doesn't seem _that_ unusual," she remarked. "Perhaps he just enjoyed breakfast more today than the previous mornings."

"Could be," Hermione agreed, reluctantly. Had she overreacted? No, not really. "He also said," Hermione added with a sigh, "that it was the best breakfast he'd had in centuries. Now _that's_ rather odd, don't you think?"

Pomfrey looked thoughtful. "He might have just been having you on a bit?" she wondered, with a small smile.

"Couldn't you just have a look at him?" Hermione asked, pleadingly. "Talk to him a bit, see what you think?"

Pomfrey nodded. "Of course, my dear. Let's go have a chat with him." She led Hermione back into the infirmary area.

 **=ooo=**

Harry appeared in the infirmary in front of the entrance. His doppelganger was standing in front of the first bed; there was a door nearby where Harry could hear Hermione's voice. He also saw the wire-haired boy in the bed next to the first one, and the girl sleeping in the one opposite him.

He glanced around quickly, finding the portrait frame where Wilhelmina and Eileen, the two women he'd met in the portrait in Snape's office, were glancing around the edge of the frame, watching Harry's double standing there.

Good. Things didn't seem _too_ out of control at the moment. Harry set about putting things right again. He pointed a hand at the portrait of Wilhelmina and Eileen, then twisted it. The portrait spun around so its front was facing the wall; that effectively rendered them blind. Harry could hear them sputtering with indignation and frustration at not being able to see what was going on now.

Harry then snapped his fingers at the curious boy in bed two, who immediately fell back asleep. Now, he needed another picture, and quickly—

There was another picture hanging over the third bed back, an older man with a tall, pointed cap and wide, white collar. Harry pointed at his double, then made a sweeping gesture toward the picture. Eodwin-Harry disappeared, reappearing in the picture frame next to the older man as Eodwin the Obscure once again. The two pictures looked at one another. "What are you doing in my frame?" the older man asked.

"I have no idea," Eodwin shook his head dazedly. "I seem to have blacked out for a bit."

"And what happened to that black-haired boy?" the older man demanded, looking back out of his frame. But the boy was still standing there—

At the same moment Eodwin disappeared, Harry had popped into the place he'd been standing, making himself visible again. He looked at the frame the two women were in, twisting his head slightly as he did, and the picture spun round again, showing a blank frame. Wilhelmina and Eileen had evidently abandoned the frame in order to find another view.

Sure enough, a moment later the two of them crowded into the older wizard's frame. "Did anything happen?" Wilhelmina demanded. "What did we miss?"

"What did _I_ miss?" the wizard retorted. "Wilhelmina, what are you _doing_ in my frame?! I issued no invitation—"

"Oh shut up," Eileen ordered. "We want to see what's happening with Potter."

"Potter?" The older wizard arched an eyebrow. He stared harder at the boy in front of the first bed. "I say, he does remind of James Potter…"

"That's his son, Harry Potter," Wilhelmina corrected him. "James Potter's been dead a decade now, Newt."

The older wizard shrugged. "Well, who can keep up with things going on in the world these days?"

"Shush!" Eileen ordered again. "Watch!" Hermione and Madam Pomfrey were coming back into the room. They walked over to Harry, both regarding him with forced smiles on their faces.

Harry smiled back at them pleasantly. "Hi," he said, as they stopped in front of him. "Everything okay?" _Of course it was_ , he added to himself. Eodwin was back in Portrait-Land and no one was the wiser, except Eodwin himself, and Harry had removed all of the portrait's memories of him in the castle outside the portrait frame.

"Of course, dear," Pomfrey said soothingly. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Never better," Harry said, with a bracing stretch to emphasize the fact. He glanced at his watch. "Uh-oh," he said, looking at Hermione. "We're already late for our first class, you know. It's 9:15."

"I know," Hermione said. "It's just that—"

"It's alright," Pomfrey cut over here. "I just want to ask you a few questions before you go, Mr. Potter."

"Okay," Harry agreed.

"When was the last time you ate?" Pomfrey asked.

"Just before I came up here, with Hermione," Harry answered immediately.

"And before that?"

"Last night," Harry said. "About six or six-thirty. Why are you asking?"

"Just curious," Pomfrey answered. "Would you say your breakfast was especially good this morning, or did you enjoy it more than usual?"

"Um." Harry feigned confusion. "It was an okay breakfast, nothing special about it."

"But didn't you say it was the best breakfast you'd had in centuries?" Hermione broke in.

"Maybe," Harry shrugged. "If I did, I was exaggerating. What's the big deal?"

"It didn't _sound_ like you were exaggerating," Hermione muttered.

"Alright, enough," Pomfrey said, signaling she should be quiet. "Mr. Potter, I don't see any reason why you should be kept here any longer. You may go to your class."

"Actually," Harry remembered. "I'm supposed to stay here until Professor Snape arrives."

Hermione frowned. "How do you know that?"

"He told me to," Harry replied.

"When?" Hermione asked. "We haven't seen him yet this morning."

"Um—" Harry had seen him, of course, but he couldn't say anything about that without making Hermione suspicious. "I, uh, was waiting out here when someone gave me a note telling me to wait for him."

"Oh," Hermione said, momentarily convinced. But then— "Wait, how did he know you were _here_?"

"Er— I don't know _how_ he knew," Harry shrugged. "The note just said to wait for him wherever I was, and he'd find me."

Hermione held out a hand. "Let's see the note."

Man, she wasn't making this easy! Harry reached into a pocket on his robe, conjuring a parchment note in it before he pulled it out and handed it to Hermione. The note read,

Potter—

Wait for me wherever you are. I will find you shortly.

Professor Snape

"See?" Harry said, as Hermione examined the note. After a minute she handed it back to him, looking dubious but saying nothing.

"I'll wait with you, then," she declared, sitting down on an empty bed. "I should explain to him why you and I aren't in his class this morning."

"Suits me," Harry said, sitting down on the bed next to her.

"Very well," Madam Pomfrey sighed. At least there seemed to nothing wrong with Mr. Potter, though she wasn't altogether sure about the girl with him — she had seemed quite worried about the boy, over what appeared to be nothing. "I'll return to my duties," she said, going back into her office.

Hermione sat on the bed, trying to work out what had happened. One minute Harry was acting like there was something seriously wrong with him, the next he was fine.

Harry just smiled and covertly watched the picture frame containing the two women, who had by now returned to the nurse's picture and were whispering quietly together. The older wizard in the other frame was staring quizzically at him, as if trying to piece together what had caused the uproar he'd been subjected to. At least he'd gotten out of his first class of the day!

 **=ooo=**

Meanwhile, in West Palm Beach, Florida, Samantha was starting her Friday morning chores by doing a load of laundry. Darrin was having breakfast and coffee with Larry Tate, a weekly get-together that let them catch up with each other about the events of the week, along with whatever else men their age talked about.

Sam had just started the washer when the phone rang. She stepped into the kitchen to pick it up. "Hello? Oh hi, dear! How are things with my favorite daughter?"

"Fine, Mom," Tabitha replied, but there was tension in her voice. "I just wanted to check and see if Electra was visiting you this morning. I went to wake her up just now and she's not in bed."

"Well, she's not here, either," Samantha said. She looked around, sending her witchcraft-enhanced senses through the house, in case Electra was in the spare bedroom, sleeping. "No, not a sign of her here anywhere."

"I don't know where she could be, Mom," Tabitha fretted. "I checked that book she likes, but she's not in there. The TV's not on so I know she didn't sneak off in there again. I don't know where she could be if she's not with you."

"All right, sweetheart, don't worry," Samantha said comfortingly. "We'll find her. Have you tried to talk to her?"

"Yes, Mother," Tabitha snapped unthinkingly. "Of course I tried that!" She took a deep breath, calming herself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. I tried calling her name, but either she can't hear me or she's not answering. I hate to think where she might be that she can't answer me."

"Hang on a second," Samantha said. "I'll put out a notice for everyone to be on the lookout for her." She put down the receiver and concentrated, fingers pressed against her forehead.

" _Calling all witches, calling all witches!  
_ _Be on the lookout for a young witch named Electra!  
_ _She's blonde and just turned six years old.  
_ _If you see her, get in touch with me or her mother, Tabitha_."

"Thanks, Mom," Tabitha said, once Samantha picked up the phone again. "I heard your message, too. I just hope someone gets back to us before long. I'm really worried something's happened to her."

Samantha was worried, too, but she only said, "Don't worry, someone will have seen her and let us know where's she's at."

" _Um, hi_."

"Harry?" both Samantha and Tabitha said into the ether. "What's going on? Why are you calling us?" Samantha asked.

" _Uh, I know where Electra's at_ ," Harry told them.

"Where?!" Tabitha asked, excitedly. "Harry, is she with _you_?"

" _Well, sort of_ ," Harry replied. "She's here at Hogwarts. I'm just not sure _where_ at the moment."

"Where are _you_?" Tabitha asked him.

"Er, I'm in the infirmary," Harry said.

"Why, what's happened to you?" Samantha demanded worriedly.

"Nothing, really! The Potions professor told me to stay here until he came to check with Madam Pomfrey. But it's past noon here now and he hasn't shown up, so I can't leave."

"Oh, my stars," Samantha sighed. "All right. You stay where you are. I'll be there in a few seconds to pick up Electra, and then I want an explanation for what's going on, young man."

"It's not my fault!" Harry said, automatically.

"Harry," Samantha said reprovingly. It was eerie how much she sounded like an older Hermione sometimes, Harry thought.

"All right," Harry admitted. " _Some_ of it's my fault. But I needed help _earlier_ and she was the only one who came—"

"We'll discuss it later," Samantha said, cutting him off. "Stay put, I'll find you." She broke off the ethereal connection. Into the phone she said, "I'll go get her, Tabitha."

"I'm coming, too, Mom!" Tabitha declared.

"No," her mother objected. "I want to keep our presence in the wizarding world to a minimum. I'll take care of it, including fixing any problems Electra and Harry might have caused by careless use of witchcraft. You just be prepared to deal with your daughter when I get her home."

"Gladly," Tabitha said in a grim tone. "I've warned her about running off without talking to me first! I'll talk to you soon, Mom." They both hung up.

Samantha gestured and changed into her witch robes: a long, black gown with a black cape. She thought about conjuring her hat as well, but the trip to Scotland wouldn't take that long. "Now," she said to herself. "Let's go see what kind of trouble Harry and Electra are getting into, up there." She vanished.

 **=ooo=**

 _Crap_ , Harry thought. _Crap, crap, crap_!

He was probably in for it, now. And it was all Electra's fault!

Well, that wasn't true, he admitted to himself. It was _his_ fault for not realizing that sending a portrait to do a warlock's job wasn't a smart idea.

He and Hermione were still sitting on the same bed in the infirmary where Hermione had situated herself to wait for Snape. That had been almost three hours ago by now, and Harry was starting to feel hungry.

"You know it's past noon, Hermione," Harry said to her. "Maybe you should go down to the Great Hall and get something for lunch. Snape didn't say _you_ had to wait for him, after all."

" _Professor_ Snape," Hermione reminded him, aggravatingly. "I don't mind waiting. I want to explain to Professor Snape why I brought you to the infirmary."

 _Except if you_ do, Harry thought, _he'll wonder how I could be in the infirmary and outside his office at the same time_! "He's not going to care what you have to say," Harry pointed out. "He's going to talk to Madam Pomfrey." _And_ she's _going to say that I'm fine, and he'll remember I threw up on him_. _The only thing I've got going for myself_ there _is that nobody would make themselves that sick on purpose_. Either way, this wasn't going to end well.

"I don't care," Hermione said, standing and facing Harry. "I want to explain why I thought you needed to come here, Harry. You were acting very oddly; I don't know what happened or why it suddenly went away, but I think someone ought to get to the bottom of—" She suddenly stopped talking.

Harry glanced up at her. "Bottom of what?" he asked, but Hermione didn't answer. She didn't move, either. He looked around the room. The other two students in the room, the wiry-haired boy and the older girl, who were both eating lunch, were similarly frozen in place.

"What's going on?" the portrait of the nurse, Wilhelmina, called out from her frame. "Oh dear, oh dear," she fretted. "I should advise Madam Pomfrey something is—" She suddenly slumped over in her chair, asleep.

Samantha appeared next to Hermione. "All right, young man," she said in a no-nonsense voice. "What's been going on around here? What kind of trouble are you in? And _where's Electra_?"

Harry filled her in on the details. Samantha listened, arms folded across her chest, a stern expression on her comely features.

When Harry finished, she shook her head wearily. "I hope you learned something from all this," she said matter-of-factly, though there was a small smile quirking her lips. "I'll leave it to Uncle Arthur to handle your punishment—"

Harry very carefully did not beam happily; Uncle Arthur would probably praise him for hassling Snape, not punish him.

"—but on second thought, Arthur's not the best disciplinarian," Samantha mused. "I'll have to discuss the matter with Tabitha. We might have to give you more homework assignments to keep you busy."

"I'm already doing schoolwork 14 hours a day," Harry objected. "Six hours of wand magic and eight hours of witchcraft and mortal subjects at night! Uncle Arthur and Aretha only give me a one-hour break for a snack between nine at night and six in the morning!"

"Really?" Samantha looked surprised. "You're doing _that much_ schoolwork every day?" She paused a moment as Harry's words sunk in. "And what's Aretha doing here? She and Arthur—" Samantha cut herself off. Harry didn't need to know Arthur and Aretha had had an affair, decades ago.

"Um, he's got her helping him with my night classes," Harry explained.

"I remember her," Samantha nodded. "Interesting. She must've changed quite a bit in the past few decades."

"She's nice enough," Harry offered. "But she really piles on the homework."

"How do you find any time for sleep?" Samantha wondered.

"Arthur gives me a potion that makes me sleep from six a.m. to seven-thirty," Harry answered. "It's supposed to give me the equivalent of eight hours of sleep."

"Oh my stars," Samantha shook her head. "Tabitha and I didn't envision it would be like this when we agreed to let you come here, Harry. Maybe you ought to come home and go to a regular school. You can still learn witchcraft from Mother and Tabitha."

"But—!" Harry still wasn't ready to give up. "Cousin Samantha, I really do like it here! I know I messed up with the portrait thing, and I won't do that again, but I've made friends here. I don't want to lose them. Plus, Uncle Arthur says he knows who in the school is being controlled by Voldemort."

Samantha looked shocked. "He's _here_? In the school?" She looked very troubled. "Harry, I'm not comfortable with you staying someplace where someone wants to kill you, even if he is only a wizard!" She looked upward. "Uncle Arthur? Come here this instant!"

Arthur appeared wearing a smoking jacket, casual slacks, and slippers. "Oh, hi, Sammy," he said, clearly not expecting to see her at Hogwarts. "What's up?"

"You know very well what's up!" Samantha scolded him. "What's the idea of letting this Voldemort person get so close to Harry?! What were you thinking?!"

"Oh, relax," Arthur waved off her accusations. "Harry's perfectly safe here at Hogwarts — you told me Dumbledore promised he would be."

"Does _he_ know Voldemort is in the school?" Samantha demanded.

"Well, not exactly," Arthur said, reluctantly. "He thinks he _could_ be, but he hasn't come across anyone who's possessed yet."

"But _you_ know who it is, right?" Samantha demanded, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Of course I do," Arthur quickly agreed, taking an unconscious step away from his niece. "After all, what kind of uncle would I be if I couldn't protect my nephew —"

"Save it," Samantha cut him off. "How did you figure it out?"

"Well," Arthur said, gesturing so that he was suddenly wearing a deerstalker hat and holding a magnifying glass in one hand, with a calabash pipe appearing in his mouth. "Employing my vast powers of deduction, I was able to determine that someone had been occupied by Voldemort. I must say, it wasn't easy coming up with this conclusion — it involved a lot of careful observations and sifting through mounds of unrelated facts so that —"

"Just tell us how you did it," Samantha snapped.

"Oh, very well," Arthur sighed. He reached into his smoking jacket and pulled out a small vial on a chain. It was the bit of Voldemort Dr. Bombay had taken from Harry's scar. "This glows more brightly when it gets closer to whoever Voldemort's spirit is inhabiting."

"So _that's_ how you knew!" Harry regarded his uncle with a mixture of admiration and annoyance. "I thought there was some kind of special spell you were using!"

"Nope, just this, kiddo," Arthur said, handing it to him. "So whattaya say, Sammy? Can Harry and we — I mean me — stay?"

Samantha looked closely at the vial. "Mother was right," she mused. "It _did_ come in handy, keeping that." Her demeanor became no-nonsense once again. "Uncle Arthur, I want you to get rid of Voldemort. I don't want him in this school while Harry's here!"

"Oh, Samantha, come on!" Arthur complained. "Don't be such a party pooper!"

"Yeah!" Harry agreed. "I can take care of myself!"

"It's too dangerous," Samantha disagreed. "I won't have it, and neither will Tabitha. Either Voldemort goes, or Harry does."

"But that's not fair!" Harry cried. Both he and Arthur crossed their arms mutinously. "I'm not afraid of some old ghost!"

"He's not a ghost!" Samantha pointed out. "He's a disembodied spirit, and that makes him a lot more dangerous than a ghost." Harry huffed disagreement but didn't say anything. "I can't believe I'm even arguing about this with you!" Samantha said, throwing up her hands.

"Hold on a second, Sammy," Arthur said in a placating tone. "Listen, maybe I have a way to fix this so we can all be happy."

Both Samantha and Harry looked at him expectantly. "Go on," Samantha said, with a wary look on her face.

"I can give the vial to Harry," Arthur proposed, taking it from around his neck and holding it out for them to see. "That way, Harry can't be surprised if Voldemort tries to sneak up on him."

"Hmm," Samantha considered the idea. "I'm still not comfortable with the idea, Uncle Arthur."

"Oh relax, Sammy," Arthur told her. "We can protect Harry, never fear."

Samantha raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by 'we'?"

"Er—" Arthur realized he'd slipped up. "I meant to say _I_ can protect him."

Samantha regarded her uncle with some amusement. "Relax, Uncle Arthur—I know you and Aretha are seeing one another again. I hope things work out better than last time."

"What happened last time?" Harry asked. Both Arthur and Samantha ignored him.

Arthur looked chagrined. "Oh you do, do you? Well, what can I say, Sammy, except she makes me laugh. And you know how important laughing is to _me_!" he chuckled.

"I do indeed," Samantha agreed. She turned to Harry, taking the vial from him for a moment. "I don't know, Harry… I'm still worried this won't be enough to keep you safe, even with Arthur and Aretha looking out for you."

"I'll be careful," Harry promised. "I'll take this with me wherever I go — Voldemort won't be able to sneak up on me anywhere!"

Samantha sighed. She felt like she ought to speak to Tabitha about this, but… "All right. But only if you tell Professor Dumbledore that Voldemort's spirit is somewhere inside the castle."

"Sure!" Harry immediately agreed.

"He already suspects it, anyway," Arthur conceded.

"All right, then, it's settled," Samantha said. "Now, let's go get Electra so I can take her home, Tabitha's worried about her." She raised her hands, snapping her fingers, and the three of them disappeared.

 **=ooo=**

Electra was sitting in a large, squashy chair next to the Headmaster's desk, smiling happily as she gently stroked Fawkes's head. Fawkes was trilling melodiously, a sound that should have put everyone in the room into a relaxed, peaceful mood.

It hadn't.

For Electra, who was _already_ happy, there was no problem. She had come with the grumpy man with the very bad hair to the older wand-witch's office, where they had tried to convince her to tell them who her mother was and how she had gotten into the castle. Electra had ignored them, wandering around McGonagall's office looking into books and cabinets as the Deputy Headmistress had spoken sternly to her, telling to sit down, stop misbehaving and tell them who her mother was _this instant_!

Electra thought that amusing.

McGonagall had eventually given up and taken the girl to Dumbledore. Which was a mistake, because Dumbledore's office was even more interesting than hers had been. She had looked through several dusty old books, played with a few of the silver devices on the spindly tables, and chatted with the Sorting Hat, then called Fawkes over so she could pet him. To McGonagall and Snape's amazement, the magical bird had flown to her and put its head in her lap so she could pet it.

Dumbledore, who had immediately recognized who the little girl was, nevertheless was bound by Endora's spell to reveal nothing about witches and warlocks to others. He was only able to tell them that the little girl was related to Harry Potter and that she was probably here to visit him. He then watched, bemused, as Professors McGonagall and Snape tried to sort out how to regain control of the situation.

He ought to tell them _that_ wasn't going to happen. But they would figure it out, eventually.

There came a knock on his office door, making Dumbledore wonder why the guardian of his office hadn't announced a visitor. "Come in," he said, and the door swung open to reveal Harry, Arthur and Samantha.

"Granma!" Electra cried happily, seeing Samantha.

"Hello, sweetheart," Samantha said to her, nodding a greeting to Professor McGonagall as she walked over to pick up her granddaughter for a hug. "Hello," she said to the Transfiguration professor, holding out a hand in greeting. "I'm Samantha Stephens, Electra's grandmother."

"H-hello," McGonagall said, taking Samantha's hand with some apprehension and shaking it. "Professor Minerva McGonagall. We've been trying to determine who she belongs to. Professor Dumbledore said she's a relative of Mr. Potter's."

"She's a bit precocious," Samantha said apologetically. "She was supposed to go to her preschool this morning, but when her mother went in to wake her up, she wasn't there. Harry told us she was here, and I came to pick her up."

"Just a minute," Snape interrupted. Samantha looked at him questioningly. "You are American, are you not?"

"Yes," Samantha smiled. "What gave me away?"

"Your accent, for one thing," Snape retorted, taking her seriously. "Perhaps you are not aware of how things work in Britain, but children of your granddaughter's age should not be able to travel about so freely using magic. There are laws restricting the use of magic by underage children."

"Watch it, Chuckles," Arthur warned him. "You don't know who you're speaking to. Samantha is the Q—"

"A concerned grandmother," Samantha hurriedly spoke over him. "Uncle Arthur, let me handle this." She turned back to McGonagall and Snape. "I'm sorry if my granddaughter has inconvenienced you—"

" _Inconvenienced_ us?" McGonagall looked outraged. "Madam, this child has confounded us at every turn! She refused to tell us who she was, who her parents were or where she came from! Her behavior has been inexcusable, and I question whether you and your daughter are even fit to raise a child!"

Both Harry and Arthur's eyes widened upon hearing this, and they looked expectantly at Samantha. Samantha's eyes had narrowed dangerously. "My parenting skills are none of your concern, Professor McGonagall." She glanced at Professor Snape. "As for your laws, they don't apply to us in America. That's where Electra and I live, as do her parents."

"Surely you aren't serious," McGonagall objected. "The secrecy laws are part of the International Confederation of Wizards — they have been in place for nearly 300 years! You are bound by them just as much as we are here in Britain!"

"Ah," Samantha nodded. "Of course you don't know — Professor Dumbledore wouldn't have been able to tell you anything about us."

"I haven't said anything either, Sammy," Arthur put in quickly. He nodded toward Snape. "Though Laughing Boy here has been asking to learn it the hard way for some time, now."

"I _beg_ your pardon!" Snape swelled with visible anger. "You have been insufferably arrogant since the moment you arrived! In fact—" Snape quickly drew his wand, pointing it at Arthur. "Perhaps the time has come to reveal who you _really_ are — the Dark Lord!"

Harry and Arthur stared at him a long second, then broke into laughter. "Boy, Chuckles, did _you_ get a wrong number!" Arthur guffawed.

Snape looked momentarily surprised, but his face quickly hardened again. "Don't try to joke your way out of this," he growled. "You are far too powerful to be a normal wizard. The only reasonable conclusion is that you have been possessed by the Dark Lord. Every member of the staff has been tested to see whether they've been possessed, except for _you_." Snape brandished his wand threateningly. "Admit it, or I shall Stun you and we can call for Aurors to take you to the Ministry. _They_ can force the truth out of you!"

"Oh my stars," Samantha sighed to herself, then made a dismissive gesture at Snape. The wand vanished from his hand, reappearing in hers. Snape stared at his empty hand, incredulous, as did McGonagall.

"What did you do?" McGonagall demanded of Samantha, then whirled toward Dumbledore. "Where did these people come from, Albus?"

"I'm sure Mrs. Stephens intends to explain, Minerva," Dumbledore said, nodding toward Samantha. McGonagall stared at him a long moment, then turned toward Samantha, a bewildered expression on her stern features.

"Your Headmaster knows the truth about us," Samantha told her and Snape, who was looking on with equal curiosity and confusion. "I'm a witch. So is Electra. Arthur and Harry are warlocks. Our magic does not require us to use wands, as you do, and our witchcraft is a much more powerful kind of magic than you possess."

"That does not make any sense," Snape objected. "Why have we never heard of beings such as you claim to be?"

"For the same reason you keep your existence secret from mortals — those you call Muggles," Samantha answered.

"Then why are you telling us this now?" McGonagall wondered. "What if we tell others about you?"

"You won't," Samantha smiled humorlessly. "Because I will extend the enchantment that keeps Professor Dumbledore from letting anyone know about us to the two of you." She gestured at them and they were momentarily surrounded by sparkling lights that flew from Dumbledore toward them. "There!" she smiled happily. "That's done! You, Professor Snape and the Headmaster know all about us, but will not be able to tell anyone else what you know."

Both McGonagall and Snape became upset. "You can't do that!" McGonagall exploded. "We have the right to be able to say what we want—!"

"The way you allow mortals to retain their memories about you, if that becomes a problem?" Samantha retorted. "The day I brought Harry to King's Cross one of your Ministry men tried to Obliviate me. If I'd been mortal he'd have succeeded, too. If you Obliviate mortals to keep your secrets, you can't complain if someone more powerful does it to _you_."

"But it's not ri—" the words died in McGonagall's throat.

"You see the problem," Samantha nodded. "If it's not right for me to do that to you, then you are equally wrong for doing it to Muggles. But the alternative is a lot of people walking around who know about witches and wizards, and who might tell others. That can cause other problems, as you can well imagine. So you keep yourselves hidden from Muggles, and we keep ourselves hidden from you. The reason I am telling you this now is you need to know why Harry is here."

" _That_ is an interesting question," Snape sneered, folding his arms across his chest and staring down at Harry. "Why would someone like Potter even be here in the first place? And how did he acquire such abilities? His mother was a talented witch, and his father a barely adequate wizard —" Harry bristled at the insult to his father but kept his temper "—so how did he come to be what you call a warlock?"

"My father is Harry's great-great-great- _great_ grandfather," Samantha said. "So he and I are related by blood. When I brought him to our home I had our family doctor examine him and he prescribed medication that awakened and regenerated his magical abilities. Harry's been learning witchcraft from my mother and daughter for the past few months. He came _here_ to learn about the magic his parents used. That's all you need to know for now."

Samantha turned to Electra. "Sweetheart, I think it's time for you to go home. Your mother's worried about you." She took Electra's hand and raised her hand to pop them away.

"Wait, please," Dumbledore stepped forward. "Now that I can speak in front of Severus and Minerva, there are many questions I wish to ask about your kind. Where did you come from? Did you originally use wands to cast magic? Are you as long-lived as you've implied?"

"Ah, Dumbles," Arthur said, wrapping an arm around Dumbledore's shoulders. "So many questions, so little time. Let's just say for now that we're here, and we won't be leaving for a while." Arthur looked up, waving a hand expansively in front of him. "You can bask in the glow of our brilliance while we're here, and maybe, if you're lucky, you'll learn some things about yourself."

"Oh, and don't forget to tell him about Voldemort," Samantha reminded Arthur.

McGonagall gasped and grasped her chest, and Snape's eyes narrowed at the mention of the Name. "What do you wish to tell us?" Dumbledore asked, intrigued.

"Well…" Arthur dithered a bit, not wanting to just blurt it out. "We have, um, determined that he's, eh, somewhere…inside the school."

"How have you determined this?" Dumbledore asked, concerned. "As Severus said, I've examined all of the staff members and students who might have been at risk of being possessed; Voldemort is inside none of them."

A loud buzzed went BZZZZT. "Sorry, Dumbles, wrong answer," Arthur told him. "Harry, show him."

Harry reached inside his shirt and pull out the chain, showing the vial containing the bit of Voldemort inside it. It glowed a sickly green. "Recognize that?" Samantha asked Dumbledore. "That's the bit of Voldemort we took out of Harry's scar. Arthur found that it glows more brightly the closer it gets to someone who has Voldemort inside them."

"I'm supposed to find him by the end of the year," Harry said, putting the chain and vial back inside his shirt. "If I don't I have to leave the school and go study back in America."

Dumbledore's eyes were wide with shock. "You — you cannot be serious!" he gasped. "If Voldemort is within these walls the children here are all in grave danger! I must insist that if you have the power to remove him, you should do so immediately!"

"Really?" Samantha regarded him with a critical eye. "So that stone you're keeping here in the school, to lure him here — isn't that putting all of the students here in danger as well?"

"What stone?" McGonagall turned to Dumbledore. "Are _you_ trying to bring You-Know-Who here, Albus?!"  
Dumbledore had the good grace to look at least a bit embarrassed. "Perhaps I have overstated the situation," he murmured. "Lord Voldemort is only as powerful as the person he inhabits, beyond his ability to possess other beings. The most powerful wizard in the school other than myself is —" he turned briefly to Snape "—my apologies, Severus, but that person is Quirinus Quirrell."

"Very good, Dumbles," Arthur chuckled, tapping his nose. "You're exactly right."

"Awww!" Harry groaned. "You said I could try to figure out who it was! No fair!"

"Sorry, kiddo," Arthur shrugged. "But your old Headmaster does get something right every so often."

"Thank you," Dumbledore nodded, wondering if that was a compliment or an insult. "How do you wish to proceed?"

Samantha looked at Harry, then Arthur, then shrugged. "It's your school, Headmaster. I would say that's up to you."

"If we have the opportunity to capture the Dark Lord," Snape said. "We should not hesitate!"

"I concur," McGonagall quickly agreed. "We cannot allow You-Know-Who to remain in the school!"

"You know," Arthur shook his head wearily. "You're all a bunch of nervous Nellies. Your Little Lord Dark isn't here to murder your students—" he thought for a moment. "Well, maybe Harry, but that's only if he gets the chance. He's here for that shiny red trinket Dumbles has hidden in the dungeons."

"Just what is this 'shiny red trinket,' Professor Dumbledore?" Professor McGonagall asked, looking at the Headmaster suspiciously. "What could You-Know-Who be interested in?"

Dumbledore sighed resignedly. It appeared his amusing stratagem to lure Voldemort here had worked against him. "I've hidden the Philosopher's Stone somewhere below the castle," he admitted. "It can be used to brew the Elixer of Life, which can restore Voldemort to full vitality."

"Huh?" Something didn't make sense to Harry. "How's he going to drink it if he's only a spirit?" he asked.

"That's a good question, Harry," Samantha said. She looked at Dumbledore. "Well?"

"I believe I can answer that," Snape spoke up. "The Dark Lord could possess someone such as Quirrell; drinking the Elixer would allow the body to retain full vitality. Without it, in time the possessed body would begin to degenerate and would eventually die. Quirrell is a powerful wizard, but in the past he has lacked confidence in himself; it was the reason why he only taught Muggle Studies for so many years. With Voldemort's mind inside Quirrell's healthy body, he would be a formidable wizard indeed."

"For a _wizard_ , maybe," Arthur scoffed. "But I'd bet by the end of the school year even Harry could take him, if his warlock training keeps on at its current pace."

"I seriously doubt that," Snape sneered. "Despite your claims of his ability, I've never seen him do a single remarkable thing in his entire first week of school."

Harry and Arthur looked at one another and gave simultaneous eye-rolls. "Professor Snape," Harry huffed. "Has it ever occurred to you that I _deliberately_ haven't been showing off my witchcraft, so no one will figure out I'm different from everyone here?"

The Potions Master stared at Harry contemptuously. "You aren't fooling me, Potter — you have the same prideful arrogance your father did. He was forever showing off his spellcasting prowess to anyone who would pay attention to him."

Samantha stepped in. "Alright, this isn't getting us anywhere. Harry, I'm still inclined to agree with the Professors — it would be best to remove Voldemort from the school so you can concentrate on your education. You do have a lot on your plate, you know."

"Yeah," Harry grudgingly agreed. "I guess it's best for everyone." He was still a little mad he wasn't going to get to find Voldemort on his own. "So now what — huh?"

Harry, Samantha and Arthur all turned toward the door to the Headmaster's office, where their witchcraft-enhanced hearing had picked up rapid footsteps moving down the spiral staircase. "I think that was Professor Quirrell eavesdropping on us!" Harry exclaimed, running to the door and passing through it.

"Wait!" Samantha cried, but it was too late — Harry was gone, chasing after whoever had been listening in. "My stars," she exclaimed, then turned to her uncle. "Arthur, go and stop them! I should stay, but I need to bring Electra home _now_."

"Granma, let me stay and watch!" Electra pleaded, finally speaking up after silently watching Harry, Uncle Arthur and Samantha arguing with the wand wizards.

"No, you're already in enough trouble," Samantha said, her tone every bit as stern as McGonagall's. She took Electra by the hand. "I'll be back as soon as I can," she said to Arthur, and she and her granddaughter vanished.

"No hurry," Arthur called after them. He rubbed his hand gleefully. "Boy, oh boy!" he enthused. "This should be fun!"

"Are you _insane_?!" McGonagall was frantic. "What if Quirrell attacks Harry? He could kill him!"

"No he won't — Quirrell will be too busy trying to get to the Philosopher's Stone," Arthur giggled. "He probably heard us talking about it. That's his number one goal right now. And I want to watch and see how Harry handles it."

"No," Dumbledore shook his head, finally asserting his authority. "I forbid you to interfere, Arthur. I will stop Quirrell. It is my fault he was allowed into Hogwarts in the first place."

"You _forbid_? Sorry, Dumbles," Arthur grinned, shaking his head. "You're sitting this one out." He snapped his fingers and vanished. At the same time there was a loud CLACK from the door to the Headmaster's office, like a giant bolt being slammed into place.

Snape went over and tried to open the office door. It wouldn't budge. "I don't have my wand," he said, holding up an empty hand. His wand suddenly appeared in it. "Uh — never mind," he muttered, then cast several unlocking charms at the Headmaster's door, none of which worked. McGonagall and Dumbledore tried several spells as well, including trying to Vanish the door or Transfigure it into liquid, with the same result.

" _Now_ what?" McGonagall fretted, worried for Harry in spite the abilities he'd just displayed.

"I suppose," Dumbledore sighed. "We shall have to wait and see what song the Fat Lady sings."

"Oh, shut up, Albus!"

=ooo=

 **A/N: Changed "Key West" to "West Palm Beach" per a reviewer's comment.**


	8. The Chase

.

 **Chapter Eight**

 **The Chase**

 _Updated_ 10/16/2015  
Last updated 11/3/2015

 **=ooo=**

Harry passed through the door and bolted down the spiral staircase, determined to catch Professor Quirrell/Voldemort before he could make it to the third-floor corridor and go down the trapdoor to steal the Philosopher's Stone. He could hear the wall hiding the staircase grinding open, and the sound of feet running away.

Harry stopped. He already _knew_ where Quirrell was going — all he had to do was pop to the third-floor corridor and wait for him there. Once Quirrell arrived, Harry merely had to snap his fingers and the Defense professor would be trussed up like one of Aunt Petunia's turkeys on Thanksgiving — it would hardly be a fight at all.

But that way would hardly be interesting, would it? Harry scowled to himself; doing it that way was going to be rather boring, in fact. He'd already had a whole _week_ of boring! Well, except for today, of course. No, there had to be a more interesting way to go about this capturing Voldemort business.

Harry took off again, bounding down the stairs and out into the hallway. He would chase Quirrell/Voldemort the regular way, and he'd only use wand magic to capture him. That would make it harder, but if he used witchcraft Quirrell didn't stand a chance. This way would be much more interesting — plus, he'd get an idea just how useful wand magic was for a wand wizard.

Right now, however, Quirrell had a very large head start. Harry spun toward the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office. "Which way did he go?" he demanded. "Quick, tell me!"

Wordlessly, the stone gargoyle pointed down the corridor, but in the opposite direction Harry expected. "Really?" he said to the gargoyle. "The oher way's shorter." The gargoyle just shrugged.

"Alright, fine." Harry took off in the direction he'd originally guessed. He dodged around students walking the halls, ran halfway down a wooden staircase before it began changing position; hesitating only a moment, he charged down the rest of the way, and leapt for the landing ten feet away. He cheated just a _little_ by flying the last few feet, to avoid falling. Okay, that would be the _last time_ he used witchcraft until Quirrell was caught, he declared to himself.

Trouble showed up on the fourth floor in the form of Peeves the poltergeist, who, seeing Harry running down the corridors, zoomed after him, taunting him. "Where's the ickle firstie going in such a hurry? Ah-ah! Mustn't run in the halls — old Filch will have you in detention before you can say 'polish all the trophies in the Trophy Room'!"

Irritated, Harry pointed his wand and shot a Stunner at the poltergeist. Peeves easily dodged it. "Naughty Potty!" Peeves admonished him, and began throwing pieces of chalk at Harry. "No magic in the corridors! Another rule broken! Oh, what will Mr. Filch say when Peeves tells him?!"

Harry abruptly halted and spun, pointing his wand again at Peeves. Peeves, who was right behind Harry, came to a halt in mid-air, his feet making a _screeeeech_ ing sound like a car with its brakes locked. "Hold it!" he cried. A pair of spectacles appeared on Peeves's face. "You wouldn't jinx someone wearing glasses, would you?" Peeves said, grinning smugly.

"I will if he keeps following me," Harry snapped, then turned and continued on at a dead run to get to the third floor.

Peeves watched Harry go, then called after him, "Peeves _knew_ Potty-Wotty was a coward!" He shot away in a different direction through a nearby wall, laughing maniacally.

On the staircase down to the third floor, Harry barely dodged two students who were walking up. "Sorry, sorry!" he yelled as he slipped by them, not even slowing down.

He was almost to the third floor when a familiar voice shouted at him. "Oi! Harry! Where're you off to in such a hurry!"

Harry stopped and looked back up the stairs. Ron and Hermione were staring down at him. "Harry!" Hermione called. "It's almost time for History of Magic! Aren't you coming to class?"

"Can't," Harry said curtly. "Chasing Quirrell! He's headed to the third-floor corridor to get the Philosopher's Stone! I'll tell you about it later!" He turned to run but —

"Hold on!" Ron yelled. He and Hermione ran back down the steps to where Harry was standing. "What are you _talking_ about?! What's this 'Philosopher's Stone' you say Quirrell's trying to get?"

"And what makes you think _that's_ what's hidden on the third floor?" Hermione asked. "There's only one Philosopher's Stone, and it's owned by Nicholas Flamel, a famous alchemist who's over 600 years old."

"That's what Dumbledore said, but he told me it was hidden below the school," Harry answered hurriedly. "He used it to lure Voldemort into the school." Ron flinched as Harry said the Dark Lord's name.

"Oh, grow up, Ron, it's just a name," Hermione scolded him.

"I can't help it!" Ron replied. " _Nobody_ says his name! It's bad luck!"

"Oh, rubbish," Hermione scoffed. "It says in _Dark Wizards of the Twentieth Century_ that 'Lord Voldemort' is just a _nom de guerre_ , they don't know what his real name is, but they think it probably has the same letters in it —"

"We're wasting time!" Harry interjected anxiously. "I've gotta go, I gotta catch him before he gets that Stone!" He turned away to run off _again_ , but —

"Hold on," Hermione said, grabbing his sleeve. "If this is true, you're going to need help, Harry. We ought to go tell Professor McGonagall about this — she'll know what to do."

"She already _knows_ about it!" Harry said loudly. "She was there when Professor Dumbledore told _me_!"

Hermione folded her arms. " _Professor Dumbledore_ told you the Philosopher's Stone was hidden somewhere below the castle?" she asked, looking skeptical. "Why would the Headmaster of the school tell a first-year where a powerful magical artifact was hidden in his school? That doesn't make sense."

"Trust me, he did," Harry retorted, bouncing impatiently on his heels. "I have to go—"

"And he and Professor McGonagall just let you run off to get it?" Hermione shook her head. "I don't think so, Harry. What are you _really_ up to?"

"I believe him," Ron said, glaring at her. "Harry wouldn't lie about something like that!"

"Oh, Ron!" Hermione rolled her eyes at the ceiling. "Of course _you'd_ believe him — you two are best friends!"

"Hermione," Harry huffed impatiently. "It's the truth! If you don't believe me you can go ask McGonagall or the Headmaster—"

"Or we can come with you," Ron suggested, grinning. He jerked a thumb toward Hermione. "That'll show her you're not lying."

Harry shook his head. "No, it's too dangerous for you two to come!"

"Oh?" Hermione was starting to get fired up now. "You're just a first-year _too_ , Mr. Potter! Why isn't it as dangerous for _you_ as it is for _us_?"

"Because—" Harry hesitated. He wasn't supposed to talk about witchcraft to wand wizards. "It's complicated," he finally said, vaguely.

"Too complicated to explain in a few seconds?" Hermione pressed him. "It _sounds_ like you're making it up."

Harry shook his head, completely frustrated. "Look," he finally said. "If you two want to come with me, that's fine, but let's get going! Quirrell is probably already past the hellhound by now!" Without waiting for an answer he turned and ran down the corridor toward the castle's right side. Ron and Hermione looked at each other, then hurried after him.

Running down several corridors, they were in short order standing in front of the door leading to the corridor where they'd originally found the three-headed dog.

"It'd sure be nice to have that Invisibility Cloak of yours right now, Harry," Ron muttered, staring apprehensively at the door. "I don't fancy meeting that — that thing again, whatever it was you called it."

"A hellhound," Harry said, trying the door. It was still locked. Had they beaten Quirrell here, somehow, or had he locked the door again after he passed through? Either way, they still had to get inside. Harry drew out his wand and pointed it at the lock. " _Alohomora_ ," he said, and there was a _click_ as the door unlocked.

"Quiet," Harry told Hermione and Ron softly. "The hellhound might be asleep." He pulled open the door, which promptly made a loud creaking sound. From inside the corridor there came three low growls.

"I don't think he's asleep anymore," Ron gulped. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

"Ron, it's only a hellhound," Hermione said impatiently. "We just need to play it a song and it'll go right to sleep. You know there's a harp in there we can use."

"I'd rather have the Invisibility Cloak right now," Ron said. "In fact, maybe I should go ask McGonagall if we could borrower it for a bit—"

"No time," Harry whispered. "I know a spell to make the harp play."

"I do, too," Hermione spoke up. "But it's a third-year spell. How do _you_ know it?"

Harry gave her an affronted glare. "I can read, too, Hermione. Come on." He slipped inside the door. Hermione followed him, and rather than stand outside the door alone, Ron followed her.

Loud barking immediately filled the corridor as Ron entered. He froze, frightened. The hellhound was on its feet, all three heads barking loudly as it strained against a heavy chain that kept it from moving past the trapdoor. It was a good idea, Harry saw. The hellhound couldn't move past the trapdoor so you couldn't lure it away and slip past him with an Invisibility Cloak. Had that chain been there before? Harry didn't remember.

"Where's the harp?" Hermione said loudly, over the barking. Harry looked, but the instrument was nowhere to be seen. Finally, between the hellhound's legs, Harry pointed further down the corridor. The harp was lying there, smashed to pieces.

"So much for using that," Harry muttered. "Unless —" He pointed his wand at the broken harp and said, " _Reparo_." The pieces jiggled but did not reassemble back into its original form. "Nope," he grunted. "No use. Dammit!" He could fix it instantly with witchcraft, but that would be cheating. But they also couldn't let Quirrell/Voldemort get to the Stone! If push came to shove Harry might have to cheat and use his powers.

The barking was beginning to get to Hermione as well as Ron. "Maybe we should leave," she said nervously. "What if that chain breaks?" The hellhound kept straining against the chain, pulling it tight.

"That chain looks pretty tough," Ron said, rather matter-of-factly considering he was trembling with fear. "It's more likely to pull free from the wall first." He pointed to the anchor bolt in the corridor wall — the constant yanks on the chain were causing cracks to appear around the bolt.

"Great," Harry groaned. They had to figure out something quickly or he'd have to get Ron and Hermione out of here and go after Quirrell using witchcraft. "Any ideas?" he asked them. "Do either of you have something we can make some music with? Can either of you sing?"

Both Ron and Hermione shook their heads. Ron reached in his pockets and pulled out their contents. In one hand he held a broken quill, a button that had come off his shirt that morning, and a scrap of parchment with some cribbed notes he'd used for an Astronomy quiz Professor Sinistra gave that morning. In the other hand was an old tin whistle he'd found in a corridor, three raisins he'd saved from lunch for a snack (he'd originally had a dozen, but he kept sneaking them from his pocket on his way to class), and a piece of chalk to throw back at Peeves if they came across him. "This is all I got," he said, showing the stuff to Harry and Hermione. "Nothing here we can use to make music."

"What about this?" Hermione picked up the whistle. "Maybe we could Transfigure this into something like a recorder," she suggested, speaking loudly over the hellhound's barking.

"What's a recorder?" Ron wanted to know.

"It's like a flute," Hermione explained.

"You might've just _said_ flute in the first place," Ron told her.

"You might've just _been a bit smarter_ and knew what I meant," Hermione shot back.

"Give me that." Harry took the whistle from Hermione, who gave him an indignant look, but he ignored her and put the whistle in his mouth. Remembering _Brahms's Lullaby_ , he began blowing the notes to the song into the whistle. They all came out the same pitch, more or less, but he hoped it could be called "music."

It could. The hellhound stopped barking and began listening, its three tongues lolling out of its mouths. After a few bars it sat down, then lay down on its side, closing its eyes. Within a few seconds it had fallen asleep.

Sighing with relief, Harry walked toward the trap door, and Ron and Hermione crept up cautiously behind him. Still blowing the whistle, Harry pointed to the trapdoor. One of the hellhound's paws was covering it. Ron pointed to the paw, shrugged and shook his head, as if asking, _What do we do with_ that?

Harry made lifting and moving gestures. _Pick it up and move it_!

"Are you _mad_?" Ron whispered furiously. "I'm not touching that!"

"Oh, come on, Ron," Hermione whispered. "The hellhound's asleep — it's perfectly safe." She took hold of one side of the paw, then gave him a _hurry-up-and-help-me!_ look. Ron looked heavenward, beseechingly, but finally reached down and grabbed the other side of the paw. They both heaved upward and moved the paw off the trapdoor.

Ron opened the trapdoor and peered inside. "It's too dark — I can't see a thing," he whispered. "How do we get down there?"

 _We fly_ , Harry thought, but that would be cheating. He came to a short pause in the song and whispered from one side of his mouth, "Levitation Charm?"

Hermione shook her head. "I can't levitate anything as heavy as you or Ron," she said.

When Harry glanced at Ron, he put up both hands. "Don't ask me," he whispered. "I'm still trying to levitate that damned feather."

"Language," Hermione said automatically. "So what do we do?" she asked Harry.

Harry held up his wand. "I'll do it," he said at a pause in the song. The hellhound growled in its sleep.

"Keep playing!" Ron urged him anxiously. "We don't need this bloody beast waking up now!"

"Ron! Language!" Hermione hissed again.

"Oh, give it a rest!" Ron snapped at her. She glared back at him.

Harry waved his wand in front of their faces, distracting them. He pointed at two places on the floor next to the trapdoor, and Ron and Hermione stepped onto those spots. When he came to the next pause in the song, he took the whistle from his mouth, pointed his wand at them, and said, " _Wingardium_ _Leviosa_!"

Ron and Hermione both rose an inch into the air. "Merlin's pants," Ron breathed. "I didn't think he could do it!"

"How can you lift _both_ of us?" Hermione gasped, astonished. "I can barely levitate my book bag!"

"Whoa! You can lift your _book bag_?" Ron gasped.

Still blowing _Brahms's Lullaby_ on the whistle, Harry gave his wand a flick and his two friends moved over the open trapdoor. "Careful, Harry," Ron warned, staring down into the darkness. "Don't drop us!" Without thinking he and Hermione grabbed hold of one another.

Harry began lowering them through the trapdoor. Down, down they went, until they had disappeared into the darkness. Still blowing on the whistle, Harry had no way of asking them what they could see or if they'd reached bottom yet.

Fortunately, Hermione seemed to realize that. "Nothing yet," she called up from below. "The trapdoor is a long way up, Harry. How are you doing?"

"He's got a mouth full of whistle, Hermione," Harry heard Ron remind her. "He can't answer!"

"Oh, right," she muttered. "Sorry!" she said, loudly so Harry could hear.

Harry shook his head, grinning around the whistle. But the truth was, the further down they went, the heavier they seemed to get. Harry felt his wand arm begin to tremble from the strain. He wasn't going to be able to keep this up much longer. With witchcraft, lowering them down the trapdoor wouldn't have been a problem at all.

Just when it seemed like he'd have to pull them back up or drop them, Ron called out, "Good job, Hermione! I can see something down below us! It looks like some kind of cushion. Harry!" he yelled up. "You can let us go, now! There's something below us to land on!"

Harry glanced over the edge. He could see a light far below him — Hermione had cast _Lumos_ so they could see around them. He ended the Levitation Charm; a second later there were two muffled _flumps_ as Ron and Hermione landed on whatever cushion they'd found. "We're okay!" he heard Ron call up to him.

Harry stepped to the edge of the trapdoor. He couldn't use the spell to lower himself — you couldn't cast the Levitation Charm on yourself. He would have to jump and land on whatever Ron and Hermione had fallen onto. Harry stuck the whistle in his pocket and dropped through the trapdoor just as one of the hellhound's heads came up and started to snap at him.

Just as he went through the trapdoor Hermione's frantic voice came to his ears. "Harry, don't jump! It's —" Whatever else she said was lost in a rush of air as Harry fell downward, landing a few seconds later between the other Gryffindors. The landing was surprisingly soft, considering how far he'd fallen. There must be some kind of magic cushioning his fall.

"Harry, I said _don't jump_!" Hermione, right next to him, said in a shrill voice. "Didn't you hear me?! It's a Devil's Snare!"

 _What's that_? Harry wanted to ask, but he was suddenly too busy fending off creepers and tendrils from the plant he'd landed on, trying to wrap themselves around him. A quick glance to either side told him Ron and Hermione were already tightly bound by the plant. Waving and jerking his arms and legs madly, Harry managed to maneuver close enough to the edge of the plant to slide off. He fell onto solid ground.

Jumping immediately to his feet, Harry pointed his wand at the plant. But what spell should he cast? "Harry, get us out of this thing!" Ron shouted.

"What do I do?" Harry shouted back.

"It's a Devil's Snare!" Hermione screeched again. "It likes dark, damp places! It hates light and he— _mmmph_!" Her voice was cut off as tendrils covered her mouth.

 _Light and something_ , Harry thought. Something that sounded like "hee—" Heat? He could use _Lumos_ for light, but that spell didn't put out any heat. What could he cast? If he used witchcraft he'd just shoot a big flame at the thing, so what was a good wand fire spell to use? Harry dithered for only a second, then pointed his wand toward the base of the plant and cast the Bluebell Flames charm. A jet of blue flames shot from his wand, landing on the roots of the Snare.

The Snare's leaves and tendrils began waving around wildly, trying to put out the fire Harry had set, and the creepers and tendrils holding Ron and Hermione began to loosen. Struggling and yanking on the tendrils, the two Gryffindors managed to work themselves loose and slid off the Snare onto the floor. They stood, watching as the Devil's Snare finally managed to put the fire out. "That was too close," Ron muttered, relief in his voice.

"I said this was going to be dangerous," Harry reminded him.

Ron glared at him. "Well, lucky we were along so you could throw us into the bloody plant, then, wasn't it?!"

"I got you out of it, didn't I?" Harry snapped at him.

"Because Hermione _warned_ you before it could get hold of you!" Ron shot back. "You wouldn't have known what to do if she wasn't here to tell you!"

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but before he could say anything Hermione spoke up. "Well, it's over with now. Are we going after Quirrell or not?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed, and turned toward the passageway leading away from the Snare. It was the only option available to them. "Let's go." They started off down the passage.

Ron actually had a good point, Harry realized. He'd seen a picture of a Devil's Snare in the Book of Magic, but he hadn't read anything about it in their first-year Herbology text. It made him wonder how Hermione knew about it. What else had she been reading?

The passageway they were walking along was sloping downward, taking them further down below the castle. No telling how far down they were now — it must be below the level of the dungeons. After a minute of walking Ron pointed in front of them. "Look, I see a light up ahead."

"Do you think we've caught up with Professor Quirrell?" Hermione asked. There was worry in her voice. "How are we going to stop him once we catch him?"

That was a good question, Harry realized. He'd planned to use only wand magic during this chase, but Quirrell was an adult and a _professor_ of Defense Against the Dark Arts! He very likely knew more wand spells than Harry could ever dream of. And Voldemort was supposed to be even older and more experienced than Quirrell! "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he muttered, not really answering the question. "I just hope he hasn't gotten to the Stone yet."

"What does he even _want_ the Stone for?" Ron asked. "What can it do?"

Both Harry and Hermione stared at him. "Ron, haven't you ever heard of the Philosopher's Stone?" Hermione asked him. Ron shrugged and shook his head.

"It's a powerful magical artifact," Hermione explained. "It can transmute metals into gold, and it can be used to brew a potion called the Elixir of Life, which makes you live longer. I told you earlier that Nicholas Flamel has used it for over 600 years to keep himself alive."

"And Voldemort can use it to keep Quirrell's body from dying while he possesses it," Harry added. "Quirrell is a powerful wizard — if Voldemort takes over his body he could use the Elixir to keep himself alive forever!"

"So we have to stop him," Hermione breathed, aghast.

"That's what I've been trying to _tell_ you!" Harry snapped. They were almost to the end of the passage. The three of them walked into a brilliantly lit chamber, its ceiling arching high above them. It was full of small, jewel-bright birds, fluttering and swooping all around the room. On the opposite side of the chamber was a heavy wooden door.

Ron looked up, watching the birds flying around the room. "This is weird," he mumbled. "Obviously we've got to get to that door across the room. D'you think the birds will attack us if we try? Looks like hundreds of 'em flying around up there."

Harry was looking not up, but down. "I doubt it," he said. "Look at the floor."

Ron and Hermione both looked. "I don't see anything," Ron said.

"Neither do I," Hermione agreed.

"That's my point," Harry told them. "There's not a single bird dropping on the floor, even with all those birds flying around up there."

"They're not even birds!" Hermione suddenly exclaimed, pointing upwards. "Look closer at them! They're _keys_!"

She was right. The things flying around above their heads weren't birds, but hundreds of brass keys, all fitted with wings of every color — red wings, blue wings, green wings, yellow wings. "Come on!" Harry said, and ran for the other side of the room.

They all reached the wooden door at the same time. It was fitted with a silver handle and plate, with a large, old-fashioned keyhole in it. Harry tried the door but it was locked. Hermione pointed her wand at the lock and said, " _Alohomora_!" but nothing happened. Harry tried the spell, too, with the same result.

"So we've got to find the key?" Ron moaned. "But there's hundreds up 'em up there!"

"Quirrell got through," Harry muttered. "We should be able to find a way through as well."

"We don't know he did," Ron pointed out. "He might've given up and left, don't you think?"

Harry stared at him. "Ron, there's no way out but the way we came in. I think we would have passed him if he'd given up."  
"There's got to be a way to handle this," Hermione pondered, staring up at the keys flying above them. "The first thing to do is, figure out how to get to those keys."

But Ron had already spotted the answer to that question. "Look over there," he said, pointing to a corner of the room where three broomsticks were leaning against the wall. "We can each grab one of those and fly up to catch a key, then bring it down and try it in the lock."

"But we don't start learning to fly until next week!" Hermione objected. "I've read all about flying, but I've never done it before!"

"It's _easy_ ," Ron assured her. "You just kick off the floor and point the broom where you want to go. Lean forward to go faster, and pull back on the broomstick to slow down and stop."

Hermione stared at him. "I have no idea what you just said," she told him.

Ron smirked at her. "Now you know how I feel when _you_ talk!"

"Ha-ha," Hermione said, sarcastically. "Harry, did you understand anything Ron just—"

But Harry was already in the air, having grabbed a broom and soared upward toward the cloud of flying keys. Ron grinned and shouted, "Go get 'em, Harry!"

It felt good to fly, Harry thought, even if it he was just on a broom again. Normally young witches and warlocks trained to fly on brooms before they graduated to flying by themselves. Endora had given Harry Samantha's old broom, but Harry had been such a natural at flying that he'd mastered it in just a couple of days.

What he _wasn't_ used to was having things attack him while he was flying. As soon as he was in the air the keys began zooming toward him as if they wanted to knock him off his broom. He found himself trying to grab at keys even as they attempted to dive bomb him.

Ron and Hermione watched as Harry swooped around, grabbing key after key, only to let them go, dodging the attacking keys by flying in loops and rolls. "What are you doing?" Hermione called to him. "Bring one down so we can try it!"

"I haven't found the right one, yet!" Harry yelled down to them. "The key's probably the same color as the lock plate, isn't it?"

"It normally is," Hermione agreed. "Good catch, Harry!"

"It'll be a 'good catch' if I can find the bloody thing," Harry muttered to himself. There were so many brass keys it was hard to spot a silver one among them. How could Quirrell have found it so quickly?

He suddenly caught sight of a key that was flying differently than the others. Instead of swooping and gliding like the other keys, it seemed to limp through the air, and Harry saw that one of its bright blue wings was broken. It was also silver, which clinched the deal for him. He sped toward the key, never taking his eyes off it, automatically dodging the other keys trying to hit him, and easily snatched it from the air. Zooming down to the floor, he dropped the broom, holding up the key for Ron and Hermione to see.

"This one was handled pretty roughly," he said. "I think Quirrell damaged it when he caught it." Hermione took the key from him and examined it.

"It looks like it was made for that lock," she said after a moment, then inserted it into the keyhole.

"That was some great flying up there, Harry," Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Too bad you can't try out for Seeker on the Quidditch team — you'd be a natural!"

"Thanks," Harry said, but his mind wasn't on Quidditch at the moment. How much closer were they to finding Quirrell? Having Ron and Hermione with him, it was going to be hard to stop the wizard without openly using witchcraft. Not that he wouldn't tell his two friends what he really was, if it came to that, but he didn't want Quirrell/Voldemort to find out what he could really do.

Things were getting more and more complicated by the second. Harry was starting to think he should have gotten Samantha and Uncle Arthur's help. They would be able to stop Quirrell a lot easier than he could.

"Harry?"

Harry blinked. "Um, yeah?"

"Did you hear me?" Hermione asked. "I said the door is unlocked. Are you ready to see what's on the other side?"

Harry nodded, coming out of his reverie. "Sure. Let's do it." He took hold of the handle, silently hoping this was the final room. If he had to, he could freeze Ron and Hermione and deal with Quirrell by himself, then call in Samantha or Uncle Arthur to help with the cleanup. For that matter, he realized, what had happened to Professor Dumbledore? He had a phoenix, after all — with a phoenix he could travel almost as easily as witches and warlocks could. Harry opened the door.

 **=ooo=**

Invisible and intangible, imperceptible even to Harry's senses, Samantha and Arthur watched as Harry and his two wand-wizard friends left the room of flying keys. "Well, he's doing alright so far, I suppose," Samantha commented, worrying her lower lip.

"Are you kidding, Sammy?" Arthur replied. "The kid's a natural. Did you see how well he flew that broom?"

"Yes, very impressive," Samantha agreed. "But I'm still worried what's going to happen when he catches up with that wizard. I was afraid those keys were going to hurt him, flying into him like that."

"I know," Arthur agreed, soberly. "It looks like Voldemort altered the enchantments of this puzzle to be more dangerous than the staff originally intended. He's more powerful than I gave him credit for."

"That's what worries me," Samantha admitted.

"Relax, Sammy," Arthur assured her. "You and I are here, aren't we? If the kid runs into trouble, we can handle things behind the scenes to keep Voldie from doing anything to Harry or his friends."

"I know." But Samantha still looked worried. "I just don't want Harry thinking that he can handle more than he's really capable of at his age."

"Oh, Sammy." Arthur was giving her an amused smirk. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" There were a few times in Samantha's past where she had gone off on "adventures" to strange and exotic places in the world, places where a mortal girl would have ended up in serious danger. But Samantha had always sailed through those situations without a care — until she later learned that her Uncle Arthur had been watching over her, keeping her safe without her knowledge.

"No, I'm not," Samantha answered matter-of-factly. "But I still love you for looking out for me." She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Now, let's go see how Harry and his friends are doing in the next room." She took Arthur's arm and they stepped through the closed door.

 **=ooo=**

The room Harry, Ron and Hermione entered was pitch black, and Harry nearly waved his hand to light it, but braziers along the wall lit by themselves before he could make the gesture. The room was square with a very tall ceiling, and the floor was a large-tiled black and white checkered pattern. What really caught their eye, however, were the objects standing on those red and black tiles.

Giant chessmen. The tallest pieces were over ten feet tall, and even the smaller ones in the front were as large as fully-grown men. They looked like they were carved from black and white stone, and all of them carried weapons — spears, swords and axes.

"Whoa," Ron muttered apprehensively.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"It looks like a wizard chess set," Ron said. "And I don't like the looks of them."

Harry pointed to a door on the far side of the room. "There's where we have to go," he said. "Let's just walk across the board and see what happens."

They started out across the tiles, moving between the black pieces, all of which remained motionless. When they reached the center of the board, however, all the white pieces in the front row pointed their spears at them, and the larger pieces behind him pulled out swords and axes, waving them threateningly.

"Well, _that's_ not going to work," Harry said, stopping. He looked around at the imposing array of chessmen surrounding him, then turned to Ron and Hermione. "What do you think we have to do?"

"I think we have to play chess," Ron said, flatly.

"Damn," Harry muttered. "I was afraid you were going to say that. I've never played chess in my life."

"I've played a little with my mum and dad," Hermione spoke up.

"I've played quite a bit," Ron told them. "Plus this is _wizards'_ chess, not the kind Muggles play."

"What's the difference?" Hermione wanted to know.

"Well, not a lot, actually," Ron admitted. "Mostly that you tell the pieces where to go rather than move them yourself. But they sometimes argue with you if they don't think the move you're making is a good idea." He looked apprehensively at the pieces surrounding them. "I hope these chess pieces don't have that problem."

"So how's this supposed to work?" Harry wanted to know.

Nearby, Samantha turned to Arthur. "I'm wondering that, myself. It's not very obvious how they're supposed to do this puzzle."

"Professor McGonagall designed this part of the puzzle," Arthur told her. "I overheard her talking about it one morning over breakfast with the other witches on the staff. Anyone wanting to get to the other door stands with one of the black pieces and directs their moves. If black wins the game the door unlocks and they can pass to the next room."

"Sounds simple enough," Samantha said. "What's the catch?"

Arthur shrugged. "If Voldemort altered these pieces when he came through here, the game is bound to be a lot more dangerous than what McGonagall planned."

"I don't like the sound of _that_ ," Samantha fretted. "Maybe we should warn Harry?"

"Way ahead of you, Sammy," Arthur smiled. He held up a hand and an envelope appeared in it. He walked over behind Ron and slipped the envelope into his back pants pocket, then stepped back. The envelope became solid once Arthur let go of it.

"What—?" Ron jerked, feeling something behind him. He reached around and felt the envelope in his pocket. "What's this?" he asked, pulling it out and looking at it. Harry and Hermione glanced around to see. On the front of the envelope were the words, "The Rules."

Someone was looking out for them, Harry thought, smiling as he glanced around the room. He couldn't see Arthur or Samantha, but it seemed likely they were here. _I hope you're here_ , he thought into the ether. _If you are, please don't interfere unless you have to_. There was no reply, but he was sure they'd gotten the message.

Ron had torn open the envelope and was reading the letter inside aloud. "'Dear Player,'" he read. "'This is to advise you of the rules of this game. Each witch or wizard wishing to advance to the next room must stand with one of the black chess pieces. One player may direct the movements of the black pieces. As in a normal game, white moves first. When a piece is taken it will be removed from the board.'" Ron looked up at Harry and Hermione. "In wizard chess," he gulped, "when you take another piece the attacking piece normally smashes the loser to bits. At the end of the game the pieces all go back together, but I don't know what'll happen if you're standing with a piece that's taken. I'd rather not find out," he added, feelingly.

Harry had been thinking while Ron was reading. "Maybe we don't have to play by the room's rules," he said, looking at the door behind them. "What if we go get those three brooms from the last room and use them to fly over the chess pieces to the door?"

Ron and Hermione both thought about that. "Can't hurt to try," Ron shrugged, and they went back to the door. But try as they might, it would not open again for them. "Well, that's a bust," Ron muttered, after they'd given up. "Too bad I don't have a flying carpet in my pocket," he quipped, lamely.

"I'd settle for a good chess book," Hermione commented. "Well, let's get this over with. Ron, you've played more than I have, so you should make the moves. Where do you want Harry and me to go?"

Ron stared at the black pieces for a while. "Ron," Harry pointed out. "We _are_ trying to catch Quirrell, remember?"

"Don't rush me," Ron muttered, still studying the board. "I'm trying to figure out what pieces are the safest to put you with." After a bit he nodded. "Okay. Harry, you go stand with that bishop. That's the piece with the tall, pointy cap. Hermione, go stand next to the rook."

Hermione frowned. "None of those pieces looks like a bird, Ron."

Ron rolled his eyes. "I can't believe I know something you don't," he said, smugly. "The rook is that piece that looks like a tower."

"Oh," Hermione looked a bit abashed, but went over to stand next to it. Harry stood next to the bishop. "What are you going to be?" Hermione asked Ron.

"I'm going to be a knight," Ron said, with a small smile. He went over and jumped up on the knight piece standing between them.

"I don't like this," Samantha said, worriedly. "This is much too dangerous to let them go through with playing the game! They could be hurt or even killed!"

"I can take care of that, Sammy," Arthur assured her. Turning to the white pieces, he recited,

 _Chessmen that play using McGonagall's way,  
_ _Listen to what Arthur now has to say!  
_ _Though you're now under Voldemort's iron rule,  
_ _All of you will now play chess like the Fool!"_

"That takes care of it," Arthur beamed.

"What did you do?" Samantha asked.

"Just made it a lot easier to win, if Ron plays his pieces right," Arthur replied. "Let's watch."

Ron, Harry and Hermione were watching the white pieces anxiously, waiting for the first move. Slowly, the white piece in front of the bishop on the King's side stepped forward one square.

"Hmm," Ron said. "An interesting open. I wonder…" he thought for a second, then pointed to one of the pawns. "You there! In front of the king! Move forward two squares!"

The black piece nodded and obediently stepped forward two squares. After a few seconds the white pawn in front of the king's knight moved forward two squares.

"I can't believe it," Ron gloated. "What a bloody stupid move! Alright, then — Queen, move diagonally four squares!" The black Queen came to life and stepped regally to the designated spot.

The white pieces seemed to slump. The white king took off its crown and tossed it on the floor. All the white pieces then moved to the side of the board, leaving the way to the door clear.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

"Fool's mate!" Ron said, happily. "White played right into it! That was bloody lucky on our part!"

"Nice work, Ron!" Hermione complimented him. "I'm not even going to comment on your language this time."

"Except you just did," Ron reminded her. "Anyway, let's get through the door before those pieces change their mind!"

The three of them raced across the room, pulled open the door and stepped through, running along the passageway to the next room.

"I'll have to remember that game the next time we play chess," Samantha commented.

Arthur gave her an aggrieved look. "Like I'll ever play chess with you again, Sammy — you cheat!"

"I do not!" Samantha said, amused at Arthur's attempt to bait her. "I've had a few years to practice my technique, you know."

"I've had a few more years practice than you have," Arthur reminded her.

"Is that a challenge?" Samantha smiled.

"Maybe," Arthur hedged. "But maybe we can start with a simpler game—say, tic-tac-toe?"

Samantha giggled. "Let's go see how they're doing in the next room." She and Arthur walked invisibly across the board, past the still-bowing pieces, and into the passageway beyond.

 **=ooo=**

"Ewww!" Hermione said, grabbing her nose as they opened the door to the next room.

"Whoa!" Ron waved his hand in front of his face. "That smells like Fred and George's room after a meal of bangers and mash!"

The room they were in had a horrific stench permeating the air. The three of them lifted their robes and held them over their noses. The reason for the smell was immediately obvious.

A very large troll, nearly 12 feet tall, stood in front of a door on the opposite side of the room, regarding them with dull, beady eyes and a huge club in one hand. It stared at them for several seconds before it said, "Uurrg."

" _Uurrg_ to you, too," Harry replied, politely.

Ron and Hermione gave him a curious look. "Are you trying to _talk_ to it?" Ron asked in disbelief. "Those things are about as interesting to talk to as a rock! And not even as smart as one!"

"Trolls actually have some intelligence," Hermione said, going into lecture mode. "They have a rudimentary language, and some of them can even be taught a few words of English."

"Can they be taught not to stink so bad?" Ron asked, still holding his nose.

"Shush," Harry muttered, watching the troll, who was starting to look peeved. "I think he knows what you're saying."

"We ought to go back," Hermione whispered. "He looks like he could crush us all in one blow with that club."

"Let me try something," Harry muttered, then stepped forward with his left hand raised and his right hand (holding his wand) behind his back. "Hi there," he said to the troll. "How's it going?"

The troll looked confused for a moment. " _You speak to Uggar_?"

"Yes," Harry nodded. "We don't mean to bother you. Can we go through that door that's behind you?"

The troll looked around at the door, then back at Harry. It shook its head. " _Friend say, let no one pass_."

"Your friend said that?" Harry grimaced to himself. Obviously Quirrell had been through here before them. "I'm your friend, too."

" _You no friend. Look good to eat_ ," the troll growled.

"Oh, we're not," Harry disagreed. "Not at all."

The troll raised his club. " _Uggar find out_."

"You don't want to do that, Uggar," Harry took a step back. He might have to use witchcraft to stop the troll.

" _Uggar hungry_!" The club lifted even higher, and Harry had an idea.

He brought his wand around and pointed it at the club, saying " _Wingardium Leviosa_!" The club came out of the troll's hand, hovering above him. No longer feeling the club in his hand, Uggar looked up to see what had happened to it.

Harry canceled the spell.

The club slammed down onto Uggar's head, and he shook it once stupidly before keeling over onto the floor, a knot already forming on his forehead.

"Huh," Ron said, staring at the unconscious troll. "That spell is handier than I thought! I ought to learn how to do it."

"Good idea, Ron," Harry muttered. "Come on, let's get out of here before I vomit." Still covering their noses, the three Gryffindors passed by the unconscious troll and through the door into the next room.

"That was fast," Arthur said. "They're getting better at this game, Sammy."

"I'm glad of that!" Samantha said, waving at the air. "It's been a while since I smelled anything that bad! Let's go see what's next."

 **=ooo=**

"This is completely unacceptable," Snape growled, staring at the door to the Headmaster's office. It had so far resisted all their attempts to escape the room: it could not be unlocked, Vanished, Blasted, Transfigured or eaten away by the most corrosive acid any of them could conjure. All of the windows behaved similarly. A Portkey created by Dumbledore had taken them nowhere. Even the Floo refused to light when McGonagall threw a pinch of powder into the fire. They were trapped.

"You must admit," Dumbledore commented. "This is a fascinating look into the potential wizards could aspire to, if we could but understand how witches and warlocks such as Samantha and Arthur can attain such power."

"I look forward to reading your monograph on the subject," Snape retorted, dryly. "Meanwhile, have you considered that if the information that you lured the Dark Lord to Hogwarts, and that he was subsequently captured by a _first-year_ , leaks to the public, you are likely to be sacked by the Ministry and governors of Hogwarts, and vilified throughout the wizarding community?"

McGonagall gave him a sharp look. "What are you saying, Professor Snape? _You_ wouldn't release such information, would you?"

"It is hardly up to me to do so, Deputy Headmistress," Snape answered, silkily. "But if Potter and his…relatives…do stop the Dark Lord and deliver him to the Ministry, the story is bound to get out. Especially so since Potter will have once again defeated the Dark Lord."

"I do not think Harry would do such a thing," Dumbledore said, but there was a crack in the veneer of his confidence, Minerva could sense. "After all, the boy and his cousin and uncle do not seek publicity for its own sake. He came to the school to learn the kind of magic his parents used, not to fight Voldemort."

"But that's why he's here, isn't it?" McGonagall spoke up, and both Dumbledore and Snape turned to her. "Albus, if you took the trouble to convince Nicholas Flamel to let you borrower the Philosopher's Stone just so you could lure You-Know-Who here, it cannot be a coincidence that this is also Harry Potter's first year here."

Dumbledore did not speak for some time. Snape waited, silent as well, wondering how the Headmaster would reply. McGonagall was no fool, and Dumbledore's confession that he had lured the Dark Lord here was a damning one.

"I admit," Dumbledore said at last, "I am not entirely blameless in all that has transpired to this point." McGonagall's expression hardened. "However, Minerva, the current situation could not have been anticipated."

"What do you mean?" McGonagall demanded. " _You_ were the one trying to bring it about!"

"True," Dumbledore admitted. "But no one knew that beings with such magical power existed. Or that they, like us, were determined to keep their existence secret to less powerful beings. When Harry was placed with his aunt and uncle there was no hint that he was anything other than a normal wizarding child of gifted parents." Snape gave a snort of derision. "I know your feelings concerning James Potter, Severus, but it cannot be denied that both James and Lily were bright and magically gifted."

"And in what way does that give you the right to manipulate Harry the way you have?" McGonagall demanded.

"I have explained this before, Minerva," Dumbledore replied, patiently. "When Harry was orphaned none of James's relatives were living. Harry's godfather Sirius Black had just been sent to prison for betraying them to Voldemort. There was no one else to turn to but Lily's sister Petunia."

"Other wizarding families might have taken him in," Minerva pointed out. "The Weasleys, the Bones —"

"Which would have had Harry growing up fully exposed to the adulation and hero-worship of the wizarding community," Dumbledore countered. "Not to mention exposing him and the family he was with to Death Eater reprisals for his defeat of the Dark Lord. Harry grew up without having to deal with all of that."

"You could have given him to me," Snape commented. Both Dumbledore and McGonagall looked at him, wide-eyed. "I would have made sure his childhood was spent in anonymity, without all of the adulation you wanted to avoid, Headmaster."

"That sounds like an _amazingly_ bad idea," McGonagall snorted, and Snape sneered at her in reply. "But for that matter, _I_ could have taken care of Harry rather than giving him to those Muggles!"

"Both of your offers are quite generous," Dumbledore said, diplomatically. "If rather moot at this time. However, as full-time teachers neither of you could have given him your undivided attention during his formative years. I had hoped that Petunia, with a new child about the same age as Harry, would give him the same love and caring attention that she did with her own son. Sadly, I have learned that such was not the case."

"I _told_ you they were the worst kind of Muggles, Albus!" Minerva scolded him. "I _knew_ I shouldn't have let you leave him there!"

"Hindsight is always perfect," Dumbledore murmured. His bright blue eyes fell on the gold and red plumage of Fawkes, his phoenix, and a memory seemed to open up inside his mind. "And speaking of hindsight," he went on. "There is one method of escape we have not yet tried."

McGonagall and Snape followed his eyes to the phoenix. "How could we have forgotten about _Fawkes_?" McGonagall wondered. "It seems so obvious now!"

"Perhaps we were kept from thinking of it by Arthur or Mrs. Stephens," Dumbledore speculated. "Regardless, let us try now. Fawkes, to me! We must travel to the room where I have hidden Nicholas Flamel's Stone!"

The golden bird spread its wings and with a trilling cry it launched itself into the air. At the same time McGonagall and Snape each put a hand on Dumbledore's shoulder, and he reached into the air and grasped Fawkes tail as it flew over him. Fawkes and the three wizards vanished in a burst of flame.

 **=ooo=**

As Harry, Ron and Hermione stepped into the room at the end of the next passageway, the door slammed shut behind them. They spun, watching as purple flames shot out of the floor in front of the doorway back. There was an open doorway across the room, but black, evil-looking flames flared up in front of it. If there was anyone in there, they couldn't see them.

The only things in the room they were in was a wooden table with seven different bottles on it, each one a different size than the others.

"What's _this_ about?" Harry wondered aloud. He was getting pretty tired of the interminable puzzles they were being forced to do!

Hermione pointed at the table. "Look! There's a piece of parchment next to the bottles!" She ran over and picked it up. Harry and Ron looked at it over her shoulders. The writing on the parchment read,

 _Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,  
_ _Two of us will help you, which ever you would find,  
_ _One among us seven will let you move ahead,  
_ _Another will transport the drinker back instead,  
_ _Two among our number hold only nettle wine,  
_ _Three of us are killers, waiting bidden in line.  
_ _Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,  
_ _To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:  
_ _First, however slyly the poison tries to hide  
_ _You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;  
_ _Second, different are those who stand at either end,  
_ _But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;  
_ _Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,  
_ _Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;  
_ _Fourth, the second left and the second on the right  
_ _Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight._

Hermione looked around at them, smiling. "Well, this is refreshing!" she said, happily.

"Why?" Ron wanted to know. "Does one of these bottles hold butterbeer?"

"Of course not!" Hermione retorted indignantly. "What I mean is, this is a logic puzzle. We don't have to knock out a troll or chase down the right key, we just need to figure out the clues that will let us go forward."

"So how do we do that?" Ron asked.

"Simple," she said, eagerly. Harry and Ron shared a quick look with each other — Hermione was going into "teaching mode" now! "We have four kinds of potions in these bottles. One will let us go forward. Let's call that potion F. One will let us go back the way we came; call that potion B. Two of the bottles contain nettle wine, those can be potion W. Three contain poison, so those are potion P. So, in no particular order, we have F, B, W, W, P, P, P.

"Now for the four clues," Hermione continued. It says that the poisons are always on the nettle wine's left side, so we can change the order to something like P, W, P, P, W, F, B. That's only one way they can be ordered, though.

"The second clue says the two bottles at either end are different. The possible combinations for the right and left ends are P/W, P/F, P/B, F/B, or B/F, discounting the combinations where wine is on the left end, because poison is always to the left of the wine. But it also says, if you want to move forward, neither the right end or the left end are your friend. So we can remove P/F, F/B and B/F from the list, leaving P/W and P/B. And since the P/W combination doesn't help us go forward or back, we are left with a poison bottle on the far left and the bottle back through the purple flames on the far right."

Ron shook his head. "Okay, stop, you're making my head spin!"

"I follow you," Harry nodded. "Keep going!"

"Okay," Hermione nodded. "Now the third clue tells us that neither the smallest nor the largest bottles contain poison."

"How does that help us?" Ron asked. "The bottles aren't arranged by size!"

"Let me get to the last clue!" Hermione told him. It says that the second on the left and second on the right are _twins_. We have _two_ bottles containing wine, so we know that's what in the second and sixth bottles.

"So the contents of the seven bottles so far are: P (because a poison bottle is always to the left of wine), W, unknown, unknown, unknown, W and B. But since a poison bottle is on the left of each wine bottle, so we can change the order to P, W, unknown, unknown, P, W and B. Therefore, one of the unknown bottles is poison, and the other will send us forward."

"But how do we tell which is which?" Ron wondered, staring at the bottles in confusion.

Hermione pointed to the third bottle in line, the smallest bottle. "The third clue said neither dwarf nor giant holds death inside. That bottle is the smallest, so the one next to it is poison. That means the order of the bottles is P, W, F, P, P, W and B."

"Nicely argued, Hermione!" Harry congratulated her. "I'm impressed!"

"Thank you," Hermione said, trying to sound modest, though the broad smile on her face made her seem less than sincere. "I love puzzles like this!"

Harry picked up the smallest bottle, looking at it. It was so small, there was barely a single swallow in it. How were they all going to go on to the next room?

Hermione might've been thinking the same thing, for she said, "Doesn't look like enough for all three of us, does it?"

"Maybe it refilled when Quirrell drank it?" Ron suggested. "How else could he have gotten through?"

 _Because he's Voldemort, too_ , Harry thought. At least he had a good excuse to leave them behind — he could drink the potion and go on alone. It would certainly be safer if they remained behind.

But they _had_ helped him get through the obstacles! Harry reminded himself. It wouldn't be fair to put them through all that then leave them behind. Well, it would be a small cheat, but he could use Ron's idea and refill the potion each time after the first two of them drank.

"Maybe you're right, Ron," Harry nodded, agreeing with him. "Let's hope so, anyway." Unstopping the bottle, Harry drank it down. Then, pretending to tap the bottle to check it, he cast a spell to refill the bottle with the potion he'd just drank, then handed it to Hermione. "Look, it _did_ refill," he said to her. "Down the hatch!"

Hermione nodded, looking apprehensive, but drank down the potion, then handed the bottle to Ron. As they were both staring at it, Harry pointed his finger at it and cast the refilling spell again. "There it is!" Ron beamed. He held up the bottle like a toast. "Here's looking up your mum's old address."

A moment later Ron was shivering. "Oh! Merlin, that's cold!"

"I feel it, too," Hermione said, rubbing her arms. "Harry, how about you?"

Harry had felt a tingling sensation, then a coolness spreading through his body, but it didn't feel particularly cold. "I feel it, too," he said, pretending to shiver.

"Ready?" Hermione asked. Harry and Ron both nodded. The three of them stepped toward the black flames. Hermione put out her hand, tentatively, into them. "I can't feel anything," she said, looking at Harry.

"Let's get through before the potion wears off. Get your wands out in case this is it," Harry urged both of them, and the three first-years stepped through the black flames into the chamber beyond.

Professor Quirrell was standing in front of a tall mirror, staring intently at his reflection. Harry was directly behind him so he couldn't see Quirrell's reflection. "Stop, Voldemort!" Harry yelled at him. "You're not getting the Stone! _Stupe_ —"

But before Harry could complete the spell, Quirrell had whirled around, his wand preceding him with a slashing motion that disarmed all three Gryffindors. Their wands went spinning away in three directions as Harry watched, horrified. He tried to move but found himself rooted to the spot, as were Ron and Hermione. Without his wand he was—

Well, he was a _warlock_ , of course. But he couldn't let Voldemort find that out — if they handed him over to the Ministry and he told them about witches and warlocks, Harry couldn't imagine whether that knowledge could be contained or not. It was best not to take the chance.

Quirrell held up a hand, and the three wands leapt from the floor and flew to him. "Mr. Potter," he said, and his voice was nothing like the soft, stuttering mannerisms the Defense professor had exhibited during the first week of classes. "Thank you for following me — you've made it much easier to deal with you. I'm especially grateful I won't have to find and eliminate your two friends, since you were so kind as to bring them along as well." He laughed cruelly. "It is indeed fortunate I chose to eavesdrop on the Headmaster when I did. Otherwise I wouldn't have been certain that you knew who I really was."

"You're Voldemort," Harry snapped.

"Not precisely true," Quirrell replied. "It is true my Master is with me now, that he commands and I obey, but he has not possessed my mind. If he had, Dumbledore would have been able to detect his presence within me.

"However, that is irrelevant at the moment," Quirrell continued. "We have a different problem to solve at the moment. Come to me."

"No," Harry shook his head. "I won't obey you!"

Quirrell smiled evilly. "You have little choice in the matter, Potter. If you do not—" his eyes and wand flicked toward Ron, and he murmured the word, " _Crucio_!"

Ron suddenly howled in agony, a cry of exquisite torture that made Harry wince and Hermione cry out in terror. "Stop it!" Harry shouted at the wizard. "I'll do as you ask!"

"Why did you stop me?!" Samantha demanded of Arthur. She had raised a hand to cast a spell at Quirrell, stopping the torture, but Arthur had grabbed her arm, keeping her from casting it.

"A lesson learned," Arthur said, releasing her arm. "If you want Harry to understand that the things he does have consequences, to others as well as to himself, a practical example is worth a lot more than a simple lecture."

"I see your point," Samantha admitted, reluctantly. "I just don't want that to come at his friends' expense."

"Harry feels their pain more deeply than he does his own," Arthur replied. "I've noticed that about him the past week. But we won't let them be hurt again, Sammy."

Ron had stopped screaming and his head slumped forward as he fell unconscious. He remained on his feet, however, because of Quirrell's spell.

"Then come to me!" Quirrell commanded, and Harry was able to move again. He walked over to stand beside the Defense professor, looking into the mirror he was standing in front of. It was a magnificent mirror, standing nearly ten feet tall, with two clawed feet and an ornate frame made of what looked like gold. Across the top of the frame was an inscription.

 _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_

Whatever language that was in, Harry had never seen it before.

Quirrell was smirking down at him. "I see you've read what it says across the top, Potter. In case you don't know, this is the Mirror of Erised, and that inscription is very easy to read — just look at it from right to left."

Harry looked again, and the words suddenly made sense.

 _I show not your face but your heart's desire._

Harry shrugged. "I still don't understand," he said, looking at Quirrell.

The Defense professor pointed at the mirror. "I can see myself holding the Philosopher's Stone," he said. "And I put it into my pocket. That tells me that the Stone is hidden in the Mirror, somehow! But _how_ to get it out!" he snarled, frustrated. "I want to know if you see the same thing I do, Potter!

"Look in the mirror and tell me what you see," Quirrell commanded, pointing to it again.

Harry looked, and a gasp caught in his throat. Instead of himself and Quirrell, a group of people were standing behind him! Harry looked around quickly, but only Ron and Hermione were there, still frozen in place; Hermione with an expression of dread on her face, and Ron still passed out.

Harry looked back at the mirror. He counted at least ten people in the mirror with himself, most of them standing in the background, all smiling and nodding at him. The two people closest to him, a man and a woman, seemed to have their hands on his shoulders, though he could feel nothing there.

The woman was very pretty. She had dark red hair, and her eyes — Harry could see they were the same shade of green as his own, and the same shape. She was smiling, Harry saw, but also crying at the same time. Why was she crying?

Harry looked at the man, a tall, thin man with hair as black as his own. He was wearing glasses just like Harry used to have. He was smiling, too, but there was pain in his eyes. He turned to look at the red-haired woman, and Harry could see that his hair looked unruly, just like Harry's used to be. It suddenly struck Harry just who these people were.

They were his parents. His real parents.

"What do you see?" Quirrell demanded. "Tell me!"

"I — I don't know," Harry said, shaking his head. "I don't understand what I'm seeing."

"What is it, Potter?"

"I see — people. My parents," Harry muttered. "They're not here, but I see them! Why do I see them?" He wasn't really asking Quirrell, because he wouldn't believe a word of what the wizard told him. But if Samantha and Arthur were here—

"Why do you think he's seeing his parents?" Samantha asked Arthur. "I assume he means his birth parents, not Darrin and me or Tabitha and Michael."

"I think so, Sammy," Arthur agreed. "That mirror seems to show you what you want most in life."

"Listen to me, boy," Quirrell spoke harshly. "This mirror somehow contains the Philosopher's Stone. I have searched this entire room and it is nowhere else to be found. It must be in here!" Quirrell reached over and grasped Harry roughly by the arm. " _Do you know how to remove it_?!"

"Alright, that's enough!" a voice behind Quirrell said sharply, and the wizard spun, wand in hand — and froze in place, unable to move.

Samantha and Arthur appeared out of thin air and hurried over to him. "Are you all right, sweetheart?" Samantha asked him.

"I'm fine," Harry nodded. He looked over at Ron, who was still unconscious. "He hurt Ron — cast some kind of pain spell on him!"

"Oh, dear," Samantha said. She didn't want to admit they'd been watching when that happened. "Uncle Arthur, will you make sure Ron's okay?"

"Sure, Sammy," Arthur said, and went over to check on him. As Hermione watched anxiously, Arthur snapped his fingers, canceling the paralysis spell on them, then caught Ron before he slumped to the floor. He lowered him gently to the ground and gave him a quick once over. "He's fine, Sammy. Just passed out." Arthur looked at Hermione. "How are you doing, my dear?"

"I'm — I'm okay," Hermione said, shakily. "Sir," she added, not quite sure what to call Arthur, who wasn't a professor at the school. A question that had been on her lips for a week bubbled up before she could stop it. "Are you _really_ Harry's uncle?"

Arthur grinned at her. "I am," he nodded. "But there are a few 'greats' in front of the word uncle, to be candid about it."

"You're his great, great uncle?" Hermione asked.

"I'm his absolutely _fabulous_ uncle," Arthur replied, chuckling. "The truth is, I'm really—"

"Uncle Arthur," Samantha said warningly. "Ix-nay on the uth-tray for now."

Arthur pulled a face. "You can be such a drag sometimes, Sammy."

There was a burst of fire in the center of the room. A phoenix and three people appeared — Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape. They surveyed the scene with surprised expressions. "It appears," Dumbledore said, a hint of chagrin in his voice, "that our arrival in the nick of time is a bit tardy."

"Sorry," Arthur shrugged. "Show's over, folks. Please place your soda cups and popcorn containers in the trash receptacles as you leave the theater."

Dumbledore ignored that comment, which made no sense to him anyway, and walked over to look into Quirrell's angry eyes, the only part of him that could still move. "I am quite disappointed in you, Quirinus," the old wizard said. "I had hoped things would work out for the best upon your return. I see now that hope was misguided." He turned back to Samantha and Arthur. "Have you located Lord Voldemort yet?"

"Right there," Arthur pointed at Quirrell. "They're still stuck together. Harry, would you bring the vial over?"

"Oh, yeah," Harry finally remembered the vial. He took out the chain around his neck with the vial containing the bit of Voldemort's soul inside it. Holding it up, he stepped closer to Quirrell. The green light inside the vial began glowing more brightly. "I guess Voldemort's still in there," Harry said.

"Who defeated him?" Snape demanded. "Not Potter?"

"It was me," Samantha spoke up. "Not that Harry couldn't have handled him, but I decided it was time to stop him from hurting anyone else."

" _You_ defeated the Dark Lord?" Snape stared at the woman. She did not appear to be that formidable. "I find that difficult to believe."

"Do you?" Samantha regarded the Potions Master coolly. "Well, for starters, that's not really Voldemort, is it? He's just piggy-backed, almost literally, onto Professor Quirrell."

"What do you mean?" McGonagall asked.

"I mean, this." Samantha snapped her fingers, and the purple turban covering the back and top of Quirrell's head rapidly unraveled and fell away. McGonagall gasped, and Snape raised an eyebrow in surprise.

On the back of Quirrell's head was the face of a man, chalk-white in color, with red snake-eyes and two slits where a nose should be. It glared evilly at them, but it was held as motionless by Samantha's magic as Quirrell was.

" _There's_ Voldemort," Samantha said. "I think that's why you couldn't detect him in Quirrell, Headmaster — he isn't possessing Quirrell, he's merely occupying part of his body."

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded. "An ingenious defense against my Legilimency! I should have considered that myself."

"What about the Philosopher's Stone?" McGonagall demanded. "Is it safe?"

"Let us find out," Dumbledore said. He stepped in front of the mirror. "Hiding the Stone within the Mirror of Erised was one of my more brilliant ideas, if I do say so myself. Only I or someone who truly wished to protect the Stone, rather than use it for their own gain, could retrieve it." He gazed at his reflection, expecting to see himself smile, take the Stone from his pocket, then replace it — whereupon it would appear in his own pocket. But the reflection of Dumbledore only shrugged and shook his head, looking forlorn.

"I—I don't understand," Dumbledore said. "The Mirror refuses to return the Stone. How can this be? I hid the Stone in the Mirror before the start of the term, after Hagrid brought it to me from Gringotts."

"Maybe we should talk to Nicholas Flamel about it," Samantha suggested. "It's his Stone, after all."

"Nicholas can be a difficult man to reach," Dumbledore demurred. "And he will not be happy if I cannot return the Stone to him. It has kept him alive and prosperous for 600 years."

Samantha and Arthur glanced at each other and smiled.

Dumbledore looked back and forth between them. "What is amusing?" he asked, warily.

"There's something you ought to know about Nicholas Flamel," Samantha told him. She looked up at the ceiling. "Nicholas, can you come here, please?"

A moment later a man appeared in the chamber next to the Mirror of Erised. He was about Samantha's height, somewhat stout in appearance, with a pleasant, jovial expression smiling from a face framed by white hair and a curly white beard, dressed in a red and white robe and red slippers. "Samantha!" he said, holding out his hands to her. Smiling, she took his hands as he leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. "It's been ages since I've seen you, my dear! How have you and the children been doing?"

"They're grown up now, Nicholas," Samantha said. "Tabitha has a family of her own, and Adam is living in New York City. I'm sorry to call you away from your work, but I understand you let Professor Dumbledore here borrow your Stone."

"So I did," Nicholas nodded. He turned to Dumbledore, giving him a clap on the back that sent the Headmaster's half-moon glasses askew. "Albus, my old friend! Were you able to draw out that Voldemort fellow you were telling me about? Ah, but of course you have, I see him right there!" he nodded at Quirrell/Voldemort. "Very good, then. I'll just take back my bauble." Flamel snapped his fingers and a blood-red stone appeared in his hand. "Here we are!" Nicholas beamed, hefting the Stone. "Well, if that's all, then—"

"Wait, Nicholas," Dumbledore said. "I—I do not understand. How did you get the Stone back? Only _I_ should have been able to retrieve it from the Mirror of Erised."

Flamel smiled at him. "Well, it's _my_ Stone, after all, Albus. I should be able to get it from wherever you might have hidden it."

"But, the enchantment—"

"I see your confusion," Flamel nodded. "Your magic is powerful, Albus, but nowhere near the level I am capable of using. You never did suspect, did you?" Flamel nodded toward Samantha and Arthur. "I'm a warlock, Albus, like Arthur and Harry. This rock hasn't been keeping me alive — I've been alive much longer than 600 years, you see. I created the Stone as a cover, to hide the fact that I wasn't aging and dying like so many wizards around me."

McGonagall and Snape's mouths were hanging open in shock. Dumbledore himself appeared quite disturbed by this news. "But — then — what, what does the Stone _do_?" Dumbledore asked, anxiously.

"Why, nothing," Flamel grinned. "Nothing at all. It's just a pretty red rock. That's why I knew it would be safe with you, Albus." He nodded toward Quirrell. "It would be useless to this piss-ant so-called Dark Lord, because it doesn't really transmute metals into gold or create an Elixir of Life. It's just a rock."

"Huh," Harry snorted. "On the one hand, that was a pretty cool prank, Mr. Flamel," he told the warlock. "But on the other hand, it was a pretty crappy trick to pull!"

"Harry!" Samantha scolded him. "Mind your manners, young man!"

"It's alright, Samantha," Flamel said. "The boy's not wrong." He stepped over and put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I probably should have told Albus the Stone wasn't really magic, Harry. He's been like a son to me for many years." Flamel looked at Dumbledore and smiled. "His father died when he was young, and I — well, I took him under my wing and helped him along for several years; he needed some guidance in his life, especially after that debacle with Gellert Grindelwald."

"Who's Gellert Grindelwald?" Harry asked.

"He's—" but at a small shake of Dumbledore's head Flamel cut himself off. "Well, I'll let Albus tell you the story himself, when he's ready. But thank you, Harry, for reminding me to be a bit more open in my dealings with others. I'll remember that in the future.

"And to show my appreciation, I plan to bring you an extra present this Christmas," Flamel concluded, with a broad smile and chuckle.

"I'm sorry?" Harry shook his head. "What do you mean, an _extra_ present?"

"Hasn't Samantha told you who I am?" Flamel asked him. He stroked his beard. "I thought this would give me away." He snapped his fingers and his red robe was replaced with a red coat and pants, lined in white fur, with a red cap with bells jingling from it and his coat sleeves. Black boots had replaced his red slippers. "Recognize me now?"

Harry nodded, awestruck. "You're Santa Claus!"

"You must be joking," Snape sneered. "Do you honestly expect us to swallow a claim like that, no matter how adept you are at Transfiguration?"

"Hmm," Flamel chuckled. "I think perhaps I should give you your present now, Severus Snape." He tossed a small box that appeared in his hand to the Potions Master. "Open it."

Snape looked skeptical, but tore open the box. He took out a lump of coal. "Very amusing," he sneered, dropping the lump back into the box.

"Don't lose that," Flamel admonished him. "It may not be what you think it is." He turned back to Samantha. "I should be going."

"Can I invite you over for Thanksgiving, Santa — I mean, Nicholas?" Samantha asked quickly before he could vanish.

"Well, you know how busy I am around that time of year," Flamel said. "But I'm sure Perenelle and I can make it over for dinner. I'll have her add it to my schedule when I get home." He leaned over, giving Samantha a kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you then."

He then turned to Arthur. "Arthur, good to see you again!" He put out a white-gloved hand to shake.

"You too, Nick," Arthur smiled, taking Flamel's hand, then jerked as a jolt of electricity shot through and around him, lighting up the room. Arthur pulled his hand back, shaking it.

"Ah, that never gets old!" Flamel laughed. "No hard feelings, Arthur?"

"You taught me everything I know about jokes," Arthur admitted. "No hard feelings, Nick. I mean, Santa. But I want an extra present now, too!"

"You've got it! Ho! Ho! Ho! Goodbye, all!" Flamel said joyfully. "And to all, a good night!" He vanished.

Arthur was still shaking his hand. "I should've asked for _two_ presents!"

Dumbledore was still reeling from the revelations he'd just experienced. "But what — what shall we do with Quirrell and Voldemort?"

Samantha raised an eyebrow at him. "I assumed you'd want to turn Voldemort over to the Ministry of Magic, Headmaster."

Dumbledore glanced at Snape and McGonagall. "That may not be advisable. He could describe things he's seen, both today and during the past week, that would prove that people like yourself, with much greater magical ability than previously known, actually do exist."

Samantha thought for a moment. "I suppose he could do that. But I can remove his memories, and Quirrell's, too, so he'll have nothing to talk about."

"Can you remove the memories of a disembodied spirit?" Snape asked in a skeptical tone.

"Hmm, hadn't thought about that," Samantha admitted. Snape mentally noted an admitted limitation of the more powerful witch. "What do you suggest we do with him, then?"

"For now," Dumbledore spoke up. "We should not allow Voldemort to escape the body currently containing him. If possible, can you bind him within Professor Quirrell's body?"

"I can," Samantha replied. "But that doesn't seem very fair to poor Professor Quirrell, does it?"  
"It does not," Dumbledore agreed. "But Quirinus has been a willing participant in the Dark Lord's plot to return to Hogwarts to steal the Philosopher's Stone. We knew he traveled to Albania in his journeys — it seems now his intent was to seek out Voldemort. Whatever his original plans for doing so, he apparently decided to join forces with him.

"My primary concern is the safety of Harry and the other children in this school," Samantha said. "Whatever we do."

Arthur grinned mischievously. "How about we put him on ice, Sammy?"

"What do you mean, Uncle Arthur?"

"Like this," Arthur said. He gestured at Quirrell, and a clear glass tube with a rounded top appeared around the wizard, with a base below him for him to stand on. Another gesture from Arthur and the tube, and Quirrell inside it, shrunk down to six inches in height. The tube floated off the ground and into Arthur's hand. Inside the tube Quirrell, who could move again, was shaking a fist at Arthur, who blew gently on the tube. It immediately frosted over. The others walked over to see what he had done. Quirrell was frozen in position inside the tube, as was the face of Voldemort on the back of his head.

"Now, he's perfectly preserved inside here," Arthur said, holding up the tube for all to see. "And this tube is like the vial that holds the bit of Voldemort's soul inside it, so even if he gets free of Quirrell's body somehow, he won't be able to get out of there."

Dumbledore took the tube, to study it. "An elegant, if somewhat ruthless solution, Arthur," the old wizard commented. "But I think it will suffice for now." And it did solve the problem of Voldemort revealing the existence of witches and warlocks to the Ministry, and would keep secret his failed attempt to lure Voldemort to Hogwarts and capture him.

"Why don't you hang onto him for now, Dumbles," Arthur suggested. "I've already got a Dark Lord among my wizard collectibles." He chuckled at his own joke.

"Now that you've got that out of your system," Samantha said evenly. "Why don't we see about getting Harry's friend Ron to the infirmary, so the nurse can make sure he's okay."

"I'll take care of that," McGonagall volunteered. She took out her wand and levitated Ron a few feet in the air. Then it occurred to her — "Ah, how do I get to the infirmary from here? There's no Floo connection and a Portkey might be too rough on the boy, even at this short distance."

"I can take care of that," Samantha said. She raised a hand, her fingers poised. "Ready?" McGonagall nodded, and a _snap_ later she and Ron vanished.

"I will return to my office, where I will place Quirrell and Voldemort in a safe place," Dumbledore said. "Thank you, Mrs. Stephens, for your help in capturing him."

"Don't forget about me, Dumbles," Arthur grinned. "I'm the one who put him on ice."

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded. "Thank you as well, Arthur. Severus, will you return with me? We have some matters to discuss." Snape nodded, and his dark eyes flicked momentarily over Harry before he stepped next to the Headmaster, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dumbledore raised a hand into the air, and Fawkes was suddenly above them as he took hold of his tail, disappearing in a flash of golden fire.

"Well, that's that," Samantha said, pleased by what they had accomplished that day. "Now, I ought to get back to Darrin — it's not long before lunchtime in Florida and I expect he'll be hungry after a morning gab session with Larry." She glanced at Harry. "Would you like to join us for lunch, sweetheart?"

Harry looked over at Hermione, who had not spoken in some time. She was still staring, wide-eyed, at Samantha, Arthur and Harry. "Cousin Samantha, do you think it would be alright if Hermione came with us? She's seen some things today I think we ought to explain to her."

Samantha looked at Hermione compassionately. "You're right, Harry. Hermione, I'm sorry I haven't had an opportunity to properly introduce myself. I'm Harry's cousin, Samantha Stephens, and I live in Florida, in the United States. By now you might have gathered that I'm not the same kind of witch you are, and Harry is not a normal wizard. If you'd like to join my husband Darrin, Harry, and myself for lunch, I can explain more fully about myself and our kind of witchcraft. Would that be all right with you?"

Hermione looked positively dazed by everything she'd heard and seen, but she summoned up the presence of mind to nod and say, "Yes, please."

"No lunch invitation for me?" Arthur asked. "What am I, Sammy, chopped liver?"

Samantha smiled. "Of course you're invited too, Uncle Arthur," she said to him. She put up a warning finger. "Only — no practical jokes while Hermione's with us. Deal?"

Arthur scowled. "You drive a hard bargain, Sammy but — deal. I'll be sweet as pie while she's around." To emphasize the point his torso suddenly changed into a large pie. "How's that?" he asked, laughing. "Sweet enough for ya?"

Samantha giggled. "Oh, Uncle Arthur! Alright, let's get going. Gather round," she said, and Harry, Hermione and Arthur crowded next to her.

Harry couldn't resist sticking a finger into the crust of the pie surrounding Arthur. His finger came out red and he licked it off. "Mmm, cherry!" he said.

"Don't fool yourself, kiddo," Arthur told him. "I haven't been a cherry in a long time." Samantha rolled her eyes but she merely snapped her fingers and they all vanished from the chamber.

 **=ooo=**

 **A/N: Well, that appears to be the end of Voldemort. At least for now. And Hermione is going to be let in on Harry's big secret, perhaps even without the restrictions that Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape have.**

 **If this was the regular novels we might be done now, but Harry is probably just getting started with his training and meeting new people. There's still a lot to do and see in the Harry Potter/Bewitched universe.**

 **A/N#2: I added a paragraph in the part where Harry, Ron and Hermione confront Quirrell in front of the Mirror of Erised. It explains why Quirrell wanted Harry to look into the mirror.**


	9. The Parent Trap

.

 **Chapter Nine**

 **The Parent Trap**

 _Updated_ 11/8/2015

 **=ooo=**

A flash of red and gold flame heralded the arrival of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore in his office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, along with the sallow-faced, unsmiling Potions Master, Severus Snape. Fawkes, the phoenix that had brought them there from the depths of the castle, circled twice above Dumbledore before settling onto his perch, trilling softly.

Dumbledore sat down at his desk, placing the small glass tube containing the frozen body of Quirinus Quirrell in front of him. Through the semi-fogged glass, he and Snape could see the visage of Voldemort on the back of Quirrell's head, frozen just as Quirrell was.

The Headmaster regarded Quirrell's diminutive form for some time, while Snape regarded the Headmaster. What was the old wizard thinking, Snape wondered. He should be happy to see Voldemort neutralized and locked away where he could no longer do anyone harm — and if that had been accomplished by so-called relatives of the Potter boy, beings who stood as high above them as they stood above Squibs and Muggles — well, it seemed a relatively small price to pay, though it rankled Snape to admit it.

"It is not finished," Dumbledore murmured, quietly and unexpectedly.

Snape glanced up at the old wizard. "What do you mean?" he asked. "The Dark Lord has been contained — he is no longer a threat to our world. That is what you've wanted all these years, Dumbledore, isn't it?"

"That is what I've wanted," Dumbledore nodded. "And I am grateful to the Stephens woman, and to Arthur, for eliminating Voldemort's threat — for now.

"But while Voldemort yet survives, neither he nor Harry can truly live," the Headmaster went on. "That is the prophecy."

"You have not yet revealed the entire prophecy to me, Headmaster," Snape reminded him, his voice crafty. "Perhaps the time has come to do so, if you wish my continued aid in defeating the Dark Lord. _If_ you feel there is more to be accomplished in doing so, that is."

Dumbledore sighed. "There is much more to be done, Severus," he murmured. "Much I have not said, to you or anyone, for fear it would become known by the wrong people."

"Are you saying you don't trust me, Dumbledore?" Snape asked, an arch in an eyebrow betraying his annoyance at the Headmaster's refusal to completely confide in him.

"Voldemort is powerful," Dumbledore replied. "You know that as well as I do, Severus. That is why you came to me in the first place, all those years ago — to help you achieve what neither of us could accomplish on our own: the defeat of Lord Voldemort."

Snape nodded, though he was still disturbed by Dumbledore's easy use of the Dark Lord's name. "I know why I came to you," the Potions Master retorted. "As do you." The memory of that meeting came unbidden into Snape's thoughts.

It had been for Lily. Poor, beautiful, dead Lily, murdered by the Dark Lord instead of leaving her alive for Snape to comfort and console after the death of her husband, James Potter. It had been the one thing, the _only_ thing, Snape had ever requested of the Dark Lord, as his most trusted follower. James and the boy would have been dead, and Severus Snape, childhood friend and formerly _best_ friend of Lily Evans, from their years together in Cokeworth, would have helped her through her grief, giving her time to appreciate his feelings for her, allowing her to fall in love with him again. All his plans undone in a single moment, a single flash of green light that snuffed out her life, her beautiful, wonderful life…

Snape's hand passed over his face, bringing him back to the present. "Well?" he said to Dumbledore, pressing him to decide whether he would confide in him now or not.

Dumbledore nodded, slowly, then sat up straighter in his chair. "Perhaps the time has come, Severus, for you to understand the truly dire depths of our situation. I entrust it to you with this warning: you must never allow what I tell you today to fall into the hands of any Death Eater, nor allow Voldemort himself to know you are aware of it, should he somehow become free once again. I fear to do so would condemn the entire world to everlasting darkness and chaos."

"You don't think the Immortals —" this was the term Snape had adopted to describe beings like Arthur and Samantha Stephens "— would prevent such a catastrophe from happening?" Snape sneered. "They seem to enjoy meddling in our affairs, after all."

"I believe that Voldemort has already surpassed them in that regard, Severus," Dumbledore replied, weariness and tension coming through in his tone. "I have seen Samantha Stephens' mother, Endora. They are not completely immune to the passage of time. Endora appears to be a middle-aged woman—were she truly immortal I would expect her to appear no older than Samantha Stephens herself. And Nicholas Flamel appears to be older than the last time I saw him, over 70 years ago."

"I fail to see the significance," Snape objected. "What does any of this have to do with your dire prediction of our future? How has the Dark Lord surpassed them?"

"Have you ever heard the term 'Horcrux' before, Severus?" Dumbledore inquired.

Snape thought for several seconds. "It does not sound familiar to me," he admitted at last. "Should it?"

"It should not. I have removed all the books from the Hogwarts library with any reference to the term, save one. That book I left in place so that anyone reading it and pursuing the matter further would come to my attention."

"What does it mean?" Snape asked, his curiosity now piqued.

"A Horcrux is a deeply Dark object, an artifact constructed to hold a piece of a wizard's soul," Dumbledore explained. "You saw the bit of Voldemort's soul Harry had in that vial around his neck?"

" _That_ is a Horcrux?" Snape wondered. But Dumbledore shook his head.

"That piece of Voldemort's soul was originally in the scar on Harry's head," he said. "I saw a doctor named Bombay remove it when I visited Harry and his relatives in late July. Until then, Harry himself was a Horcrux, as I suspected but could not confirm."

"To what end?" Snape demanded.

"To keep Voldemort anchored to this world," the Headmaster amplified. "That fragment would keep the rest of Voldemort's soul from passing into the next existence whilst it was tied to this one. He cannot truly die until all of his Horcruxes are found and eliminated."

Snape was silent a moment. "Then the solution seems simple — take the vial from Potter and destroy it. Without such an anchor, the Dark Lord would be susceptible to death, would he not?"

"It is not so simple, Severus," Dumbledore demurred. " _Every_ Horcrux must be destroyed before his hold on this world is severed — and Voldemort himself must die after the last Horcrux is destroyed, before he can create another. If a Horcrux still remains when his body is killed, it is possible he could find a new host and recreate a suitable body before the rest are destroyed."

"Why did you keep the existence of Horcruxes a secret?" Snape demanded. Such knowledge could be useful, especially if someone needed to remain alive longer than even the extended lifespan wizards possessed —"

But Dumbledore was shaking his head, his eyes closed in painful recollection. "Severus, the only way to create a Horcrux is to split your soul, so that part of it can be secreted within the object that will hold it thenceforth. And the only way to split your soul is with a supreme act of violence — the act of murder.

"Murder rips the soul, a fragment of which is then placed within the object with a Dark spell that imbues the object with nigh-invulnerability. Only a very few things can destroy a Horcrux. One is Fiendfyre — another Dark spell that is difficult to cast and even more difficult to control, once created. Another method is believed to be Basilisk venom, though the last Basilisk believed to be in existence was sighted nearly fifty years ago. And the worst of this—"

"Not much can be worse than what you have so far described," Snape muttered.

"This is," Dumbledore insisted. "I have reason to think Voldemort created _more_ than just the one Horcrux."

"More than one?" Even Snape appeared surprised by that. "How many times can a man split his soul and remain sane?"

"I do not know," the Headmaster shook his head. "But I do know that Voldemort believed that seven was the most magical number. I believe he would have split his soul into seven pieces, creating six Horcruxes."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "How many do we know of?"

"So far, only the one that was inside Harry," Dumbledore answered. "I have been searching for clues to the others for many years now, but I have only conjecture and supposition as to what they are, nothing definite, except —" the Headmaster fell silent, staring at Snape.

"Well," Snape pressed. "Except for _what_?"

"Severus, do you know who Voldemort is?" Dumbledore asked.

"What kind of question is that?" Snape retorted. " _Everyone_ knows who the Dark Lord is!"

"I mean," Dumbledore clarified. "Do you know who he really is? Do you know his real name?"

Snape stared, nonplussed, for several seconds. "I thought it _was_ 'Lord Voldemort,'" he admitted at last. "I have never heard of another name for him."

"Voldemort wished for his birth name to be lost in the past," Dumbledore explained. "As he despised the man he was named for — his father, Tom Riddle. His mother, whose name was Merope, used a love potion to make the elder Riddle fall in love with her. She conceived a child, and planned to have Riddle marry her.

"But she fell victim to her own emotions. She was so in love with Riddle that she believed he truly loved her, and so she stopped giving him the love potion that bound him to her. When Riddle came to his senses, he left her. Her father, Marvolo Gaunt, and brother Morfin were already in Azkaban, for attacking Muggles and attempting to resist Ministry Aurors who were trying to detain them for questioning. She left her father's home and traveled to London, where she bore the child at an orphanage before dying, apparently lacking the will afterwards to live. She did have time, however, to name the child, for his and her fathers: Tom Marvolo Riddle. Eleven years later, that orphanage is where I found young Tom when I brought his Hogwarts letter to him."

Dumbledore turned away. "As you may surmise, I consider that my greatest mistake — introducing young Tom Riddle to the wizarding world. I was aware of what he was when I met him, Severus! His magic was already developed, and he was using it against people, even at his tender age! I determined to watch him carefully, but I was unsuccessful in steering him away from the Dark despite all my efforts."

"You could not have known, Dumbledore," Snape pointed out.

"Perhaps not," Dumbledore sighed. "But I might have been more vigilant in watching him for signs of his fall into Darkness."

Dumbledore stood and walked over to a black cabinet, placing the tube containing Quirrell and Voldemort inside, then carefully closed it again. He returned to his desk. "The threat is abated, at least for now. I will continue to seek out clues to the identity and location of Voldemort's Horcruxes. And I trust you will maintain the confidences I have imparted to you this day, Severus."

The Potions Master nodded respectfully. "I will keep your secrets, Headmaster, as you have kept mine."

If necessary," Dumbledore continued. "I may call upon your help in seeking out these dangerous artifacts."

"I will endeavor to provide whatever assistance I can."

The Headmaster nodded, satisfied. "Now, I must begin my search for a replacement for poor Professor Quirrell."

Hope gleamed in Snape's eyes. "Perhaps _I_ could take over the position," he suggested carefully. "I know of several fine potioneers who might be persuaded to teach these young dunderheads the subtle science and exact art that is—"

But Dumbledore was shaking his ancient, white-maned head. "I am sorry, Severus, but it is not yet the time for you to take over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts. I have told you, I _will_ consider it someday, perhaps soon, but for now I have another in mind to take over Quirrell's duties."

"Who?" Snape asked, unable to contain himself. _Who_ would Dumbledore give the job to, the job that he had coveted since coming to Hogwarts, these many years ago. "Who is it?"

Dumbledore looked up at him, his blue eyes twinkling. "I have not yet even contacted the wizard I have in mind, Severus. Surely you can wait a day or two? If I cannot find a replacement by Sunday evening, I will reconsider your request. Either way, I will make an announcement Monday morning at breakfast."

Snape stepped away from the desk, composing his anger. For over a decade he had requested the Defense position, and for over a decade Dumbledore had found one excuse or another to deny it to him. "As you wish, Headmaster," he said, his features calm but the words tasting bitter in his mouth. "I will retire to my quarters for the remainder of the day."

Dumbledore nodded, already distracted with his search, and Snape turned on his heel and strode from the office, an unsatisfied scowl on his sallow features. _Announcement_? Did the Headmaster not realize how disrespectful that was of _his_ feelings, _his_ wish to hold the Defense professorship?

In his quarters, Snape threw himself into his reading chair, by now trembling with anger at the thought of being denied, _again_ , the position he so richly deserved. It was the curse, no doubt — there was a legend that the Defense position was cursed. No witch or wizard had held the position for more than a year since the 1950s; it was rumored that the Dark Lord himself had bewitched the professorship. It was true that, since he had joined the faculty in 1980, Snape had witnessed 10 different professors of Defense each year, with Quirrell being the 11th.

But if Quirrell had also been host to the Dark Lord, who was now defeated and locked away in a cabinet in the Headmaster's office, would that not negate the curse? Normally only death could break such an enchantment, but Snape had been willing to take the chance! However, that opportunity was denied him, _again_.

Snape slammed his fist into the cushioned arm of his chair. There had to be _something_ he could do to force Dumbledore to give him the Defense position! Snape leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, thinking furiously. Perhaps if something happened to the Potter boy… something to do with the Dark Lord's followers… something to shake up the Headmaster, make him less confident in his abilities… something that would keep the boy away from Hogwarts _permanently_ …

It was an interesting idea, especially if he could maneuver the circumstances so his involvement was undetectable, and depending on whoever the Headmaster had chosen to take Quirrell's place. Snape sat back, smiling to himself, beginning to form the outline of his plan to remove Harry Potter from the school _and_ have himself installed as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

 **=ooo=**

 _West Palm Beach, Florida  
_ _12:32 p.m. local time_

By the time lunch was over at Samantha's house, Hermione's mind was reeling from the things she had learned about Harry and his relatives, even beyond the fact that she had traveled in the blink of an eye across the Atlantic Ocean and was now in America!

Harry was a warlock, a much more powerful version of a wizard. He didn't even _need_ a wand to do magic!

His cousin Samantha and his "Uncle" Arthur were like him as well, and even more powerful than Harry, being adults. And there were many other witches and warlocks living around the world as well, hidden from Muggle and wizarding eyes alike. Only a very few Muggles (called "mortals" by these people) knew of their existence, such as Samantha's husband, Darrin, and his son, Adam — who, Samantha said, had once been a warlock but who had lost his powers, somehow.

Samantha stood up from the dining room table. "Why don't you two go into the living room while Darrin and I take care of the dishes," Samantha suggested. Harry nodded and wiped his mouth with his napkin, then stood and waited for Hermione to join him. She got to her feet, her head still spinning, and followed him into the living room.

Samantha, Darrin and Arthur carried the dishes and leftovers into the kitchen. "She seems like a very nice girl," Darrin remarked quietly as Sam put away the extra food. "I can see why he's not anxious to leave that school."

"He's only eleven, sweetheart," Samantha reminded him. She went back to the kitchen counter and began scraping food off plates before putting them into the dishwasher. She glanced at the kitchen door before adding, "Harry told me he never had friends at school because everyone was afraid of his cousin and his gang. I'm just glad he's making friends at school now."

"Don't count her out of the running, Sammy," Arthur grinned. "The kid spends most of his time with her and his friend Ron — the one who's now in the school infirmary, back in Scotland. I'd say this is the perfect opportunity for those two to get to know each other better," he added, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Oh, Uncle Arthur," Samantha shook her head. "I'm sure it's not like that. Pretty sure," she added, a little less confidently.

"We'll see," Arthur purred. "They don't call me 'the Matchmaker' for nothing, Sammy."

"Well, I wouldn't try to start any fires there just yet," Samantha cautioned him. "Give them a chance to be friends a while first. They've only known each other a week."

"Oh, well," Arthur sighed. "A cupid's work is never done."

In the living room, Hermione was looking around at the furniture and decorations. "So this is where you lived before you came to Hogwarts?" she asked Harry.

"For a month or so," Harry nodded. "When Samantha first brought me here from Britain. After my birthday I went to live with her daughter, Tabitha, and her husband Michael and their daughter, Electra."

"Oh, that's a pretty name," Hermione said, smiling.

Harry smiled, too. "All the witches in the family have names that end with A — Samantha, my Aunt Endora, her sisters Hagatha, Enchantra, Bertha and Clara. Samantha has a cousin named Serena. And of course her daughter, Tabitha."

"That's interesting," Hermione commented. "I wonder why they did that?"

Harry shrugged. "Why did your parents name you Hermione?"

"My mum liked Shakespeare's play _The Winter's Tale_ ," Hermione said. "They named me after Queen Hermione."

"I've never heard that name before," Harry told her.

"Really?" Hermione smiled. "I'm surprised you haven't. It's in quite a few works of fiction besides Shakespeare, you know."

"I guess I'm not as well-read as you are," Harry replied.

Hermione looked around the room again. "Is this where you'll go when we leave Hogwarts for the Christmas break?"

"Here, or to Tabitha's house in Connecticut," Harry said. "I can visit here whenever I want, though."

Hermione smiled, but gave a soft sigh, trying to hide her envy. "I wish I could Apparate as easily as you can, Harry. It must be wonderful to visit far-away places so easily."

"It's not that easy for me just yet," Harry admitted. "I can only pop about ten or so miles at a time right now. If I wanted to travel much farther I'd have to fly."

"I was very impressed when you flew that broom and caught that key," she beamed at him. "How long have you been flying?"

"Just a month or so," Harry said. "But like Ron said, it's easy to do. I was flying without a broom after only a few days."

Hermione did a double-take. " _Without_ a broom? Are you saying you can fly by _yourself_ , Harry? That's amazing! Nobody in the wizarding world can fly without some kind of aid, like a broom or a carpet, and carpets aren't allowed in Britain."

"Huh," Harry said. That had been a sore point about going to Hogwarts — he couldn't practice his flying openly without attracting attention to himself. He'd have to use a broom if he wanted to fly, and using a broom was for _babies_. "So," he asked carefully. "Are you ready to learn flying with a broom?"

"I don't know," Hermione shook her head. "I'm not very coordinated, I'm afraid I'd fall off if I tried. I was almost petrified when Ron suggested we use the broom in the flying keys room to catch them!"

"Well, we start taking flying lessons next Thursday," he reminded her.

"I know," she shuddered. " _Don't_ remind me."

They both fell silent, wondering what to talk about next. If she didn't like flying Hermione probably didn't care about Quidditch. Harry wasn't sure himself how he felt about it — Ron had talked his ear off about it on the Hogwarts Express, and he'd heard a lot of conversations about it around the hallways and classrooms in the past week.

"Harry?" Hermione spoke up again.

"Yes?"

"I don't want to bring something up if you're not comfortable with it, but when we were with Quirrell…"

"Go ahead," Harry prompted her.

"Well, when he made you look in the mirror," Hermione said, sounding uncomfortable herself. "You said you saw your parents in there."

"Yeah," Harry nodded. He hadn't really had time to think about that much.

"Do you—" Hermione hesitated. "Do you…remember them?"

"Not really," Harry shook his head. "I mean, I could see them as clear as day in the mirror, but that was the first time I can remember seeing them."

"How did you know it was them, then?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I'm not really sure. I guess it was because my mum had the same green eyes I do, and my dad looked a lot like me."

Hermione was staring at him quite intently. "I'm, I'm sorry you never met your parents, Harry."

Harry nodded slowly. "I am, too. It would be brilliant if I could, just once."

"I think so, too," Hermione agreed.

Sitting next to Harry on the divan, though he could not see her, Endora was listening carefully to his and Hermione's conversation. "I wonder," the red-head murmured to herself. "That might be something that would give Harry a bit of closure in his life." She nodded, convinced. "Yes, that's definitely the answer!" Endora vanished from the divan.

Reappearing outside, still invisible, she raised her hands and recited,

 _From the dark and distant past,  
_ _Reveal to all the love that lasts!  
_ _Let Harry's parents come to him  
_ _So his memories will never dim._

With a flash of light and puff of smoke, two people were suddenly standing outside Samantha and Darrin's home: a pretty red-headed woman with startlingly green eyes, and a tall, black-haired and bespectacled man with a handsome face and easy smile. They looked at one another and smiled, then walked up to the door and knocked.

Harry and Hermione both looked at the door. "Two people outside," Harry said to her. "A man and a woman."

"How do you know that?" Hermione asked, curious.

"Our senses are more acute than mortals or wizards," Harry replied.

Samantha walked into the living room. "I'll get the door," she told them, going over and opening it.

"Hello," the black-haired man nodded to her. "We're here to see Harry Potter."

"Oh?" Samantha studied the man and woman curiously. "Who should I say is calling, please?"

"James and Lily Potter," the man said, smiling. "His parents."

 **=ooo=**

"But — but —" Harry began, when they had all been seated in the living room. "I thought you were dead! Aunt Petunia told me you died in a car crash! And Professor Dumbledore told me that you'd been killed by Voldemort!"

"I don't know about any of that, dear," the pretty red-headed woman answered him. "Your father and I are here now. We've wanted to see you again for a long time." She smiled, and Harry felt somehow comforted by it. "I'm sorry we weren't there to see you grow up."

"Are you going to Hogwarts yet?" his father asked. Harry nodded. "Tried out for the Quidditch team yet?"

"I'm only a first-year," Harry replied. "I can't be on the team yet."

"Who told you _that_?" James looked affronted. "There's no rule about first-years not being allowed to play! They made some silly rule about not allowing them to bring brooms to school, but you could borrow one, I'm sure!"

"Maybe," Harry shrugged agreement. "I can ask Professor McGonagall."

"She's still the Head of Gryffindor House, isn't she?" his mother asked.

"Yes," Harry replied. "She seems really strict, though — I don't know if she'll let me play."

"If you're half as good as I was, she will," James declared. "She is quite a fan of Quidditch in general and she supports the Gryffindor team to the hilt. The only reason _I_ didn't play my first year was my parents wouldn't let me. They were a little overprotective," he added with a rueful grin.

"So, where have the two of you been for the past 10 years?" Samantha asked, wondering what kind of answer they would give. Something about this situation wasn't adding up — James and Lily Potter were definitely deceased. Samantha had visited their graves in Godric's Hollow as part of researching Harry's family line.

James smiled at her. "Well, we've been…" his voice trailed off. "Hmm," he said, looking at Lily. "Where _have_ we been, dear? My mind seems to be a blank at the moment."  
""We've been…" Lily fell silent as well, looking confused. "I don't seem…to…have any recollection," she murmured. But when she looked at Harry her expression brightened again. "But we're here, _now_ , and we won't leave Harry alone again."

"Where do you live now?" Harry asked.

"In Godric's Hollow," James answered immediately. "It's a nice little cottage on the edge of town, just west of the church there. It's where you were born, Harry," he added, smiling at his son.

Hermione made a sound in her throat like she was swallowing a gasp of surprise. "What is it?" Harry asked her in a low voice.

"The house you were born in was attacked by Voldemort in 1981," Hermione whispered to him. "That's when your parents were supposed to have been killed."

Harry nodded slowly. Samantha had told him as much, months ago when he'd come to live with her and Darrin. The story the Dursleys had told him, about his parents dying in a car crash, had been a lie, to keep him from knowing they were wizarding folk. For a moment, he'd hoped, the story about Voldemort killing them would turn out to be false as well.

But history had recorded it as happening. So what were his parents doing here, _now_ , and _alive_?

"You look upset," Lily said to him. "What's the matter, Harry?"

"You shouldn't be here!" Harry shouted at her, unable to contain himself. All the fear, all the despair of having lost his parents was welling up in him, making it impossible to think straight. "I don't understand! You died ten years ago! You can't be here now!"

"But we _are_ here, Harry," James said, trying to comfort his son. "I don't know how, but we are here for _you_ , now! Don't you want to talk to us, ask us questions about our lives, _your_ life, with us?" James held out his arms. "There are so many things your mother and I want to tell you, son. Don't push us away!"

Harry stood — it was more like _flew_ — to his feet, determined to do exactly what the image of his father had asked him _not_ to do — to run away, to go hide in his room, to not see them anymore. It was too painful for him to deal with them sitting in front of him when he knew they were _dead_.

But he did not run. He could not, after all these years, abandon the parents who had left him alone in the world trying to save him, alone with strangers who hated them and him, and who took out their hatred and fear of him by forcing him to do the chores they were too lazy to do themselves. For forcing him to live with a sadistic cousin who beat him up almost daily, who bullied him so mercilessly that no one at school would even associate with him for fear of being bullied themselves. For making him sleep in a cupboard under a staircase instead of a bed when he wasn't doing chores for his aunt and uncle or being chased by his cousin.

Until Samantha came and rescued him.

"I—" Harry trembled with emotions he had repressed for too long. "I — d-don't want to push you away, Dad, Mum. But it's been so long…"

"It's been long for us too, son," James said, and Lily held out her hands toward him, wordlessly beseeching him. And that was enough.

Harry ran into their arms, sobbing his love for him, his arms tight around their necks, promising he would never let them go away. They clung tightly to each other, James and Lily now crying, too, and even Samantha reached up and flicked away a tear from the corner of her eye. Hermione watched, her hands covering her mouth, and sobbed in sympathy for Harry. It was amazing, it was _unbelievable_ , but Harry's parents were somehow back from the grave!

 **=ooo=**

While Harry and his parents were hugging one another and getting reacquainted, Samantha slipped from the living room into the kitchen, addressing the ceiling in an angry whisper. "Mother! I know you had something to do with this, I can sense you're around here somewhere! Show yourself!"

Endora appeared, stretched languidly on the kitchen counter. "Yes, my dear, what's wrong now? Did Darwin get a hangnail while playing his silly goof game?"

"It's 'golf,' Mother — and his name is _Darrin_!" Samantha snapped. "And you know very well what's wrong! Did you conjure up Harry's parents?! He's out there right now, crying his eyes out."

Endora sat up, regarding her daughter evenly. "Precisely, my dear. Closure. Harry needs _closure_ with his old life before he can really begin to live in our world. He went to that school to find out more about his parents, so I went one better — I brought his parents to _him_."

"I don't think that's a good idea _at all_ ," Samantha told her. "Harry is positively _distraught_ out there! It even brought a tear to _my_ eye, seeing him with them!"

"That's why I'll always be your mother, my dear," Endora smiled knowingly. "I can see the big picture, while you're too close to the problem."

Samantha folded her arms stubbornly. "And just what _is_ 'the big picture', Mother?"

"While Harry is _here_ , we can control the situation with his parents," Endora pointed out. "I might have had Arthur conjure them up at the school at some point, but this way is better. Here, Harry will see that his parents are a part of his old world, the wizarding world of Britain, a society that has barely advanced in over a thousand years!

"Don't give me that look," Endora warned when Samantha looked dubious. "You saw what conditions are like in that castle, Samantha, no matter what they've told you! The halls are drafty and cold in the winter, and sweltering by the end of the year. One of the teachers is a _ghost_ , of all things! And that _Dumbledore_! — honestly, Samantha, he hasn't spoken a completely honest sentence to us since he darkened your door on Harry's birthday!" Endora folded her arms, looking as irritated as Samantha felt.

"I'll grant you that, Mother," Samantha admitted about Dumbledore. "But now with Voldemort taken care of, I'm hoping that things can get back to business as usual for Harry.

"I'm not completely convinced that you're right about Harry and closure," she went on. "But I'm willing to let him spend some time with them — but no longer than this weekend! By Monday morning he's got to go back to school with Uncle Arthur and resume his studies."

"Very well," Endora nodded. "Deal." She vanished.

Samantha breathed a long sigh. "I just hope things work out like you think they will, Mother," she murmured to herself.

 **=ooo=**

 _8 September 1991  
_ _Sunday, 8:35 a.m.  
_ _Malfoy Manor_

Lucius Malfoy seated himself at the head of the polished oak table in the manor's dining room, refreshed from a good night's sleep and ready for a new day. There were two parchment envelopes on the table in front of him. One was expected — he'd told Draco to write him and his mother about his first few days at Hogwarts, including whether the Potter boy had begun attending the school. Malfoy touched the envelope, smiling; he fully expected to read that Draco had insinuated himself into Potter's confidence and was learning everything the boy knew about the Dark Lord's defeat.

It had been a bleak, bitter day, ten years earlier, when Malfoy and his fellow Death Eaters had learned of the Dark Lord's defeat, seemingly at the hand of a mere child — Harry Potter, who had subsequently vanished from the wizarding world amid the cheering accolades of the Ministry and the sheep-like public who mindlessly followed them.

Meanwhile _he_ , Lucius Malfoy, had been forced to cover his tracks, to disavow any association to the Dark Lord, lest he find himself joining the zealots who were being sent to Azkaban for continuing to support the Dark Lord's cause. Narcissa's sister, Bellatrix, and her husband Rodolphus were two such zealots, along with Rodolphus's brother Rabastan. They were there now, likely having gone mad due to the presence of Dementors at the prison. _That_ was no fate for one such as _he_ , Lucius Lord Malfoy! It had taken a lot of Galleons to make sure he avoided prosecution, but he considered it money well-spent.

Malfoy glanced at his plate. Still no breakfast? He'd been waiting nearly a minute! "Dobby," he said, annoyed, and the wretched creature appeared, bowing and apologizing profusely as he placed a plate filled with food in front of Malfoy. "Begone," Malfoy said, smacking the elf with his cane, then picked up the envelope from his son. Taking out the letter within, he began to read.

* * *

 _7 September 1991  
_ _Dear Father and Mother,  
_ _First of all, thank you, Mother, for the treats you have sent to me this week. They have been much appreciated here, and the few fellow Slytherins I have shared them with complimented you on your skill in creating them._

* * *

There was a smirk on Lucius's lips as he read this. It was obvious he was buttering up his mother with remarks like this. The kitchen house-elves had made the treats, of course; Narcissa would see through it in a moment. But, it was good for the boy to practice his diplomacy whenever he could. He continued reading.

* * *

 _My first few days here at Hogwarts have been quite busy. As your son, Father, I have naturally taken the lead amongst the first-years of our House, and I have let it be known to the upper years that cultivating a friendship with me could be an advantage to them once they left the school, as your position in the Wizengamot makes you a valuable ally._

* * *

Lucius sighed. His son still had much to learn about subtlety. He tended to rely too much on his status as the son of Lord Malfoy rather than let that fact speak for itself in his dealings with others. Still, perhaps it was more appropriate in a school environment for him to make his position with the other students clear. He continued to read.

* * *

 _Several of the teachers here have already remarked to me that they remember teaching my father. I suspect this is their way of telling me they know who you are. Notably, however, the Headmaster has not yet taken the time to have a meeting with me, but I expect he will before long, as he must be aware you are on the Board of Governors, Father._

 _As you expected, Harry Potter is here at the school. He was, as you predicted, sorted into Gryffindor House, and has become chummy with the blood traitor Weasley brood. I have made my presence known to him, as you requested, but as yet he has failed to respond to my advances to become his friend._

 _There is something else, Father. Potter has brought a tutor with him to the school, a wizard known only as "Uncle Arthur." I thought you said all of his family was dead. This Uncle Arthur seems to be an important person — even the Headmaster defers to him, and he humiliated Professor Snape during the start of term feast by transfiguring his clothes into a clown suit! Professor Snape has told me privately that he suspects this Arthur person is not really related to Potter, but he refused to say who he thinks he really is._

 _I have been waiting for an opportunity to have another conversation with Potter, to see about bringing him into my confidence, per your request, but he has not been present at meals since Thursday evening, and no one has seen him since then. I wonder if he's trying to avoid me, because he usually sits with the youngest Weasley, who says he hasn't seen him, either, nor has he seen the mudblood girl he and Potter hang out with in classes. I will continue my efforts to gain his confidence._

 _Crabbe and Goyle have been adequate in their service to me. Please tell their fathers they have learned their duties to me well. Please have Mother send more treats back with Abraxas, they do help get me through the dreary days here._

 _Your son,  
_ _Draco_

* * *

Lucius dropped the letter on the table. The news about Potter's so-called "uncle" was disturbing. As far as he knew, all of James Potter's family _were_ dead — the boy was the last of his line. As such, if he were to pass on without a will (and as far as Lucius knew, the boy had none — he had checked through his sources at the Ministry) the Potter family's considerable wealth would be inherited by his closest surviving relative, which under wizarding law would be, ironically, his own wife Narcissa, neé Black! James Potter's mother, Euphemia, was a daughter of Cygnus and Violetta Black (neé Bulstrode). Though a pure-blood, Euphemia had not been included in the Black family tree because she was almost a Squib. The Blacks had been happy to marry her off to Fleamont Potter who, though a pure-blood himself, was not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the group of British wizarding families considered the most pure-blooded in Britain.

Two surviving heirs of the Black family line, Bellatrix and Sirius, were both in Azkaban for murder, meaning they would remain there for life. Another heir, Andromeda, had been disowned by the family for marrying a mudblood, Ted Tonks. That left Narcissa, and as far as Lucius knew, the Potter family vault would remain closed and locked, sealed even from the boy himself until he reached 17 and became an adult wizard. _If_ that ever came to pass, that is.

Malfoy picked up the other envelope on the table. This one had nothing on it except his title and name, Lord Malfoy, and "Malfoy Manor, Witshire." Opening, Malfoy read,

 ** _I have returned. The boy must die. You will see to it, Lucius_**

Lucius frowned. "Dobby!" he called. There was a _crack_ at his side.

"Dobby is here, sir," the house-elf squeaked. "How may Dobby serve—"

"When did this envelope arrive?" Lucius demanded, thrusting the empty parchment envelope in front of the wretched beast's nose.

Dobby stared at the envelope only a moment. "It came last night, after sir had retired. Dobby did not want to disturb sir after he had gone to bed." Dobby cringed, expecting to be beaten for failing to give the envelope to his master immediately upon arrival.

To his surprise, Lucius merely tossed the envelope onto the table. "Very well," he muttered. "Be off with you. And bring me a new plate, this one has grown cold." Dobby nodded and he and the plate of food vanished, leaving Lucius alone with his thoughts.

He had recognized the writing. It was in the hand of the Dark Lord. Could the he really have returned after all this time? He had promised his followers he could not be defeated or killed, yet a mere child had seemingly done so ten years ago. But perhaps that was a mere ruse on the Dark Lord's part, and he had spent the past decade recuperating from injuries sustained. The Potter house had sustained severe damage the night of his defeat — but it _was_ possible he had survived, somehow. His wand had never been found, a detail that was never released to the public; only a few of the most senior members of the Ministry had been privy to that fact — and Lucius as well, through his connections at the Ministry. He would have to take the note seriously.

But Harry Potter was now in the most well-protected place on earth, given who the Headmaster of Hogwarts was. Reaching him would be difficult, virtually impossible.

Unless… _Draco_. Yes, his own son was the one person he could rely on to become Potter's friend and find a way to lure him out of Hogwarts. And it would have to be done so that Draco could not be implicated in any way if something were to befall Harry Potter while he was away from the castle. If necessary, either Crabbe or Goyle's son could be made to look responsible. As minors in pure-blooded families, neither of them were likely to be sent to Azkaban if implicated in Harry Potter's death.

A plate of food appeared in front of him, and Lucius began to eat, already starting to mentally compose the letter he would send to his son; coded, of course, in case one of the teachers or Dumbledore himself intercepted his mail. Lucius would not put it past the old wizard. In his own way, Dumbledore was as devious as any Slytherin.

 **=ooo=**

 _3:35 p.m.  
_ _West Palm Beach Zoo_

Harry, Hermione and his parents had stopped to admire the zoo's fountains, then went to a nearby concession stand for some ice cream. Harry was trying something called a drumstick, which was really just a scoop of ice cream on a cone, covered in nuts. But his parents had been happy to buy it for him, unlike his aunt and uncle, the last time he'd been to a zoo. Hermione had gotten a chocolate popsicle and was happily licking it as she followed the trio through the zoo.

It had been a blissful two days since he'd been reunited with his parents. They had insisted on taking him to dinner Friday evening, and the next day they spent walking around the city as Harry described his first week of school at Hogwarts. His parents were keenly interested to hear what had happened to him over the past ten years, but Harry had managed to distract them with other questions each time they tried. He didn't fancy telling them what had happened with his mother's sister and her husband. Today he had gotten them talking about their time in school together — Harry was surprised to learn his father and mother did not immediately fall in love with each other. It had seemed obvious they would, the same way Harry loved them the minute he'd seen them in the Mirror of Erised.

"It wasn't _quite_ a 'love at first sight' romance," his father admitted with an easy chuckle. Lily smiled ironically at his turn of phrase. "Your mother and I were in the same House — Gryffindor, of course, just as you are — but she had her friends and I had mine."

"I didn't have _quite_ as many friends as you, dear," Lily reminded him. "I was a bookworm, remember?" She glanced at Hermione and gave her a small wink, and Hermione smiled in understanding. They each knew what the other had been through at school, being smart and studious.

"How could I forget?" James grinned. "Nine times out of ten, if I wanted to know where you were I'd go down to the Library and there you'd be, your nose in a book."

"Which is why I got all Outstandings in my O.W.L.s," Lily said, proudly.

"What are O.W.L.s?" Harry asked.

"Ordinary Wizarding Levels," Lily explained. "They're examinations given in your fifth year of school, and are used to determine what subjects you will continue to study for the rest of your time at Hogwarts."

Harry turned to his father. "How many Outstandings did you get?"

"Ten," his father said, puffing up a bit as he spoke. I took every subject except Divination and Muggle Studies. Your mum got eleven," he admitted, but he smiled at her as he spoke. "I never figured out how you managed to stomach Divination, sweetheart."

"Professor Vatablasky was a celebrated Seer," Lily reminded him. "I was fortunate to have her as a teacher. She retired in 1979, the year after we left Hogwarts. Whoever took her position had some brilliant shoes to fill."

"Dumbledore wasn't a fan of Divination," James said. "But, given that prophecy of his, I can see why he didn't care for it, though I agree it wasn't quite the sham he felt it to be."

"Hardly a _sham_ ," Lily shook her head. "Interesting, the blind spots even someone as great as Professor Dumbledore can have. I wish he'd told us what it said."

"He told me," Harry said. His parents stared at him. Hermione's eyes went wide. Nobody really knew what the prophecy said, though the _Daily Prophet_ had mentioned its existence on several occasions during the time Hermione had been reading it, and had printed some guesses about what it said.

"When was this?" James demanded.

"A few months ago," Harry said. "On my birthday, when he brought me the Invisibility Cloak for a present. He said he had borrowed it from you."

"He had," James nodded. "I'd forgotten about it! So you have it now? I'd like to see it, for old time's sake."

"Er—" Harry glanced at Hermione, who wisely kept quiet. Neither of them wanted to admit where it was, but his father was giving Harry an inquiring look. "I, um, had to give it to Professor McGonagall."

"What? Why?" James cried, looking very upset. "That Cloak is _yours_ , Harry! It's been in our family for centuries! No one, especially McGonagall, should have taken it from you! Why did she do that?!"

"Well," Harry looked at his feet. "I, um, kind of disobeyed an order the Headmaster gave the school."

"What order was that, Harry?" his mother asked, quietly.

"He told us not to go into a certain corridor of the school," Harry said. "But I wanted to see what was in there, so my friends Ron, Hermione and I went there. We found a hellhound that Hagrid had named Fluffy and a trapdoor, but we couldn't see what was at the bottom so we didn't go down it. When we left the corridor Professor McGonagall took the Cloak and said I could have it back when we'd earned back the points she took from us."

James relaxed. "She can be a stern teacher," he agreed. "As long as she didn't confiscate the Cloak for good. How many points did she take from you?"

"Thirty," Harry muttered. "Ten from each of us. Hermione has already earned back her ten points. Ron and I still have a bit to go," he finished, red-faced.

"I'm sure you'll earn them soon, dear," Lily said soothingly, stroking his hair. Harry smiled up at her, comforted by her words. Their stroll had taken them down a path with a sign read, White Crocodile, Komodo Dragon and African Serval. James pointed to the sign. "Look, Lily — they have a dragon here! That seems rather bold for Muggles — dragons can be rather fearsome beasts, you know."

"I'm sure it's not that kind of dragon, dear," Lily informed him.

Hermione couldn't resist the chance to show off what she knew. "A Komodo dragon is a species of lizard found in Indonesia," she said. Lily looked at her and smiled, and Hermione smiled back, realizing Harry's mum had known as well.

As the habitat came into view they saw one: a lizard nearly ten feet long, its tail almost as long as its body. It was a greenish-brown color. "See?" Lily said to James. "Not quite what you were expecting."

"It _does_ sort of look like a Welsh Green," James suggested. "A rather poor cousin, though. Too bad it doesn't have wings."

Harry looked back and forth between his parents as they joked with each other. He had to admit, he was glad Samantha had agreed to let them stay with him for a few days. He had learned a lot about them in that short time — how caring they were toward him, and how much they loved him and missed him in their lives. Harry wished the weekend would never end…

An idea occurred to him. Perhaps, if he agreed not to return to Hogwarts, Samantha would allow them remain _here_ , with him. It wouldn't be _that_ much trouble to find a small home for them, nearby. Harry had heard stories about Aunt Endora conjuring an entire _house_ out of thin air for her to live in across the street from where Tabitha and Michael lived now. Would what he asked be so unreasonable? Besides, everyone had at first resisted the idea of him going to Hogwarts at all! Aunt Endora, Cousin Samantha and Tabitha would be getting what they wanted, too, wouldn't they?

"You look awfully pensive," his mother's voice interrupted his thoughts. Lily smiled down at him. "A Knut for your thoughts."

"Just…thinking about a house," Harry said, vaguely.

"What house is that, dear?" Lily asked.

"Um." Harry wasn't sure how to broach this subject. Maybe a roundabout approach? "About the house you lived in in Godric's Hollow," he said quickly. "I've never seen it."

"You lived there for more than a year, son," James, who by now was bored with the dragon, reminded him.

"But I don't remember it," Harry pointed out. His plan was starting to flesh out in his head even as he spoke. If he could get a look at their former home, he'd know what kind of house they might want to live in here! "I wonder if Samantha would take us to see it," he pondered aloud. Hermione smothered a gasp; didn't Harry _know_ what had happened to their house?

"I _would_ like to see it again," Lily said to Harry. No one had noticed Hermione's reaction. She turned to James. "I haven't thought about our home in a long time. How about you, dear?"

"It would be good to see it again," James nodded. "Sure, let's go have a look."

"Great!" Harry beamed. He looked upward. "Cousin Samantha? Can we have a word?"

Samantha appeared a few moments later. "Hello," she smiled at Hermione and the happy family. "Are you enjoying the zoo?"

"It's very interesting," James answered. "I was hoping for more of a dragon than the one they have here, but…" he smiled and shrugged.

Samantha glanced over to where the Komodo dragon was sunning itself, and giggled. "Yes, those aren't quite as interesting as the ones you're probably used to, but I doubt West Palm Beach could handle having an actual dragon in its zoo."

"Mum and Dad want to visit their home in Godric's Hollow," Harry interjected, phrasing the request to make it sound like it was their idea. "Is that okay?"

"Well…" Samantha dithered a moment. She'd never told Harry much about his former home — it was in ruins, and there was a monument to the Potters disguised as a war memorial in the village square. How would Harry and his parents deal with seeing those things?

"Samantha?" She started; Harry was looking at her curiously. "Is something wrong?" he asked her. It was the first time he'd called her by her name without adding "cousin" in front of it.

"No, no," she said hurriedly. "But, I think that…" she was about to refuse, but Endora's words were coming back to her. _Harry needs closure with his old life before he can really begin to live for himself_. "I think…" she went on. "That can be arranged." She forced a smile, hoping it was convincing. And hoping she was doing the right thing for Harry.

"Thank you!" Harry gave her a hug, happy she'd agreed to take them. "Can we go right now?"

"Yes," Samantha nodded. "If you're ready," she added, looking at James, Lily and Hermione for agreement. They all nodded, though Samantha noticed Hermione's nod wasn't very convincing. They locked eyes for a moment, sharing their concern for Harry, then Hermione gave another small nod. If Samantha though it was okay, she wasn't going to say anything.

"All right, everyone, here we go." Samantha snapped her fingers and the five of them vanished.

 **=ooo=**

They appeared at the edge of the town square in Godric's Hollow. The village hadn't changed much since its founding more than a thousand years earlier. True, it had grown some in the intervening time, and the buildings and streets in the center of town now had conveniences such as automobiles, electricity and modern plumbing, but it still had much of the look and feel of a village from the tenth century.

James and Lily looked around, their faces breaking out into smiles of recognition. "Hey," James said, sighing. "It's good to be back home again."

"Yes, it is," Lily agreed.

Samantha and Hermione glanced at one another and smiled. "John Denver," Samantha said.

"Who?" James looked at her blankly. "Who's he?"

"He was a singer in the 1970s," Samantha explained. "He had a song called 'Back Home Again.' You used one of the lines from the song."

"I did?" James looked bemused. "I've never heard the song before, so it wasn't on purpose. But it does feel good to be here again." He gave a bracing smile. "Shall we go have a look, then?"

"Yes," Harry said immediately. He stepped between his parents, and they set off through the middle of the square. Hermione and Samantha shared a quick glance with one another, then hurried after them, wondering what would happen when they reached the war memorial.

"It's bound to be in rough shape," James was saying. "It's been a long time since your mum and I were there, you know, and…" his voice died off as they approached the memorial, a tall gray obelisk covered in the names of those who had died in wars. "What's this?" he whispered in astonishment. Lily gasped.

For as they approached, the obelisk had transformed before their eyes. It was now a statue of three people: a man with glasses and unruly hair, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting on her lap.

"What is this?" James said again. "That looks like —" he shook his head. "It can't be," he insisted. He spun toward Samantha. "Why is this here?" he demanded.

Samantha didn't know what to say. How could she tell them it was a memorial honoring their sacrifice to save their son, Harry? How could she tell them they were dead?

Hermione spoke without thinking. "It's to honor the two of you," she said, in a near whisper. "To honor your sac—" She stopped, realizing that what she was about to say wasn't a good idea. Harry was staring at her in horror. "To honor…" she looked beseechingly at Samantha for help.

"I — I think what Hermione's trying to say," Samantha quickly interjected, "is that this is to honor the love and protection you felt for your son."

Lily's face had gone white. "Of _course_ we love Harry and want to protect him!" she whispered. "But _why_ is this here in the first place? Why would anyone erect a statue of us? Unless—" Her green eyes, so much like her son's, grew wide with realization. "Oh, no," she said in a small voice. "No, no…"

James, as intelligent as he was, still didn't understand. "What is it, sweetheart?" He put an arm around his wife in concern. "What are you thinking?"

Lily was looking around the square, her eyes finally falling upon a small church that stood along one edge. She pointed in its direction. "Come with me," she said breathlessly, and led James towards it, leaving the others behind.

"Mum, what is it?" Harry called after her, but his mother didn't stop. Harry looked at Samantha. "Where are they _going_?" he asked her in a pleading tone.

"I think we better follow them," Samantha said, wishing there was a way Harry didn't have to see this. She gathered Harry and Hermione to her and hurried after them.

There was singing coming from the church as they neared it, and Samantha remembered it was mid-morning here in Britain; church services would be going on about now. James and Lily had bypassed the church, going round it to one side where a kissing gate stood open; it was the entrance to the graveyard. "What are they doing in here?" Harry asked, his heart pounding, afraid he already knew what the answer was.

Neither Samantha nor Hermione said a word. The three of them passed through the gate. There was a path from the gate to the church, but they saw Harry's parents a distance away, walking among the graves, looking back and forth among them as if searching for something. Samantha glanced down at Harry; his face was frozen in an unreadable expression. "It will be okay," she said softly to him, but he look down and shook his head slightly. Cringing inside, Samantha hugged Harry and Hermione's shoulders as they tried to catch up to his parents.

Many of the tombstones were old and worn with time; some of them were nearly unreadable. The graveyard had evidently been here for many centuries. It wasn't very large, but it stretched out behind the church for some distance. As they went further in, Samantha saw the tombstones looked newer than the ones closest to the church.

"Look!" Hermione suddenly said, pointing to a tombstone. Samantha stopped and she and Harry followed Hermione's pointing finger. The tombstone she pointed to was relatively new, but still worn with age. On the tombstone were the words

 **Kendra Dumbledore**

Below the name were dates for birth and death, and below that, another line reading,

 **And her Daughter Ariana**

There were no dates for the latter name, but there was an inscription below it:

 _Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also._

"Who are they?" Harry asked distractedly, still watching his parents in the distance.

"Harry, look at the _last_ _name_ ," Hermione pointed out. "Dumbledore. These two women could be related to Professor Dumbledore. Couldn't they?" she looked up at Samantha for agreement.

"They could be," Samantha nodded. She hadn't seen these graves when she came here before — she had gone directly to James and Lily's. "Come on," she said, trying to catch up with them.

Harry's parents had stopped and were staring down at a gravestone as they approached. It was white marble, twice as wide as a regular tombstone, and Harry could see names and dates engraved upon it. James and Lily were staring down at it, their arms around each other. They seemed to be supporting one another. As they got closer they turned around and James put out a hand.

"Don't — don't bring them any closer," he warned Samantha, and she stopped. But Harry broke free and ran to them, throwing his around both his parents. Hermione started to speak, to call after him, but Samantha quietly shushed her.

"I'm sorry!" he sobbed, and Lily put a comforting arm around her son. "I shouldn't have brought you here!"

"It's alright, son," James said, his voice tinged with sorrow. "I think this is something your mother and I needed to see for ourselves. It explains a lot."

"No!" Harry shook his head, still pressed against them. "You're alive! I love you! I can _feel_ you! I can _hold_ you! You don't need to go — to go back in _there_!" He let go of them and spun away, covering his face with his hands, as if that would blot out the awful vision of his parents' graves.

Lily crouched down in front of him so their faces were eye to eye. "We _won't_ go back there, sweetheart," she told him. She put her hand over his heart. "We'll be here, always, as long as you remember us."

"I won't forget you!" Harry said, very firmly, shaking his head for emphasis. "I'll _never_ forget you!"

"And we'll never forget you," Lily beamed at him, caressing his cheek as she wiped away a tear.

Harry wiped away more tears from his face, then looked into his mother's eyes. "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also," he said to her.

Lily smiled sadly. "You saw Kendra's grave," she said, looking over her shoulder in the direction where Hermione had pointed it out. "I loved that verse when I first saw it," she murmured. "I hope you will understand it better someday."

"I think I understand it now," Harry said, still sniffling. He looked up at his parents. "What do we do now?"

James went to Lily's side as she stood. "I think it's time for us to go, son," he said quietly.

"A little while longer!" Harry pleaded. "Just a few more minutes!"

"You'll be fine," Lily told him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Remember, we will always be with you, Harry." Harry looked down, but he nodded, as if realizing she was right. He moved forward, hugging them both tightly one last time, then moved back, looking at his older cousin.

"Samantha, it's been a privilege," James said to her. "And," he added in a tone suggesting he knew more than Harry had told him or Lily. "Thank you for helping Harry. We are in your debt."

"Thank _you_ ," Samantha said, "for having such a wonderful son. I'm glad I met him." She smiled at Harry, who nodded in reply, managing a small smile of his own. Hermione stepped over next to him; after a few moments she took hold of his hand and squeezed it gently. Harry smiled and nodded at her.

"If you're ready," Samantha told them. "I know the counter-spell to send you back." James and Lily both nodded, and Samantha raised her hands and recited,

 _To the bright and beckoning past,  
_ _Return Harry's parents there at last!  
_ _May all the love they've shown to him  
_ _Remain in his heart and never dim._

There was a flash of light and smoke, and James and Lily vanished. In spite of knowing they'd had to leave, Harry's head still fell forward sorrowfully. Hermione put an arm around his shoulders. "I'm glad you got to meet them, Harry," she whispered to him. "And I don't think I'll ever take my parents for granted again."

Samantha came over to stand behind them. "Time to go home," she said softly to them.

Harry looked around at her. "We're already in Britain" he said, to remind her. "You could just drop us off at Hogwarts."

"I could," Samantha agreed, with a smile. "But then I'd be deprived of your and Hermione's company." The two young Gryffindors smiled at her. "And we did promise Darrin you'd have supper with us tonight before you went back."

"True," Harry agreed. "You know, I think Hermione reminds him a bit of Tabitha when she was young."

"Perhaps," Samantha agreed. Darrin _had_ been talking more about Tabitha's childhood lately. "In fact, I think I'll invite Tabitha and Michael over for dinner as well," she suggested. "I'm sure they'd like to see you before you go back, and meet Hermione as well. How does that sound?"

"It sounds very nice," Hermione said, smiling. But then she seemed to realize something. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed softly, putting a hand to her mouth. "I wonder what Professor McGonagall is thinking! We haven't been at Hogwarts for over two days now!"

"Not to worry," Samantha reassured her. "I sent a note telling her where you and Harry were, and promising you'd be back in time for classes on Monday morning."

Hermione smiled in relief, but only a moment later her expression turned worried again. "And I haven't done any homework in the past _two days_!" she fretted. The idea seemed to worry her more than being absent from school. "Oh dear! I'm _so_ behind in my schoolwork!"

Harry managed a laugh. "Don't worry, Hermione," he assured her. "You'll be caught up in no time. Remember what a bookworm you are!"

"There's nothing wrong with being a bookworm, Harry Potter!" she scolded him, but smiled as she spoke. "And of _course_ I'll get caught up. The question is, will _you_?"

"I'll muddle through somehow," Harry grinned. There _were_ certain advantages to being a warlock, after all…

"Let's go eat," Samantha announced, and snapped her fingers, whisking the three of them back to America.

=ooo=

A/N 11/9/15 - A couple of notes on two reviews of this chapter:

For Hikari Nova, Pottermore lists Ephemia and Fleamont Potter as James Potter's parents, not Dorea and Charlus Potter. The information in Pottermore is considered canon since it's from Rowling and not a supposition based on the Black Family Tree.

For Alaskan King, by the time of Order of the Phoenix, Lucius Malfoy was not a member of the Wizengamot, since he was trying to sneak into Harry's trial, but at the time of this story (September 1991) we can't be so sure about his status. I can imagine that Malfoy was a member of the Wizengamot in canon until the incident with Riddle's diary and his attempt to blackmail or extort the other Hogwarts governors got him censured or even kicked out. Being one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Malfoy Family would almost certainly be in the Wizengamot at the beginning of the series.

Also, another reviewer thought that Voldemort was back because of the letter Malfoy received. But we don't really know who sent Malfoy that letter, do we? We'll have to wait and see what develops.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	10. Losing with Lockhart

.

 **Chapter Ten**

 **Losing With Lockhart**

 _Updated_ 11/20/2015

 **=ooo=**

 _9 September 1991  
_ _Monday, 8:35 a.m._

Samantha, Harry, and Hermione appeared in Hogwarts's entrance hall several minutes before classes began that morning. Hermione had a slightly dazed look on her face; only a few seconds earlier, she'd been standing in Samantha's living room with her husband Darrin as he waved goodbye to them. And now they were all the way across the Atlantic!

"Well, here we are," Samantha said, smiling. "Hermione, I hope you'll come visit us again soon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Stephens," Hermione replied. "I had a wonderful time visiting with Harry and his…" she trailed off, not wanting to bring up the subject of Harry's parents so soon after they had to leave.

"It's okay, Hermione," Harry murmured, guessing what she was thinking. "I know they had to go back."

Samantha put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad to see you're taking it so well. I wasn't sure Mother should have done that without talking with you about it first."

"It's okay," Harry looked up at her. "I get what she was trying to do. Really." He grinned mischievously. "Plus, it would be pretty cool to be able to bring people forward from the past to our time if I had to, oh, write an essay on them for history or something like that."

Samantha pointed a finger sternly at him. "Now don't you go getting any ideas about doing something like that on your own," she warned him. "That is pretty complicated magic — you need to wait until you're older before you try something like that."

Harry looked disappointed, but— "All right," he mumbled. That reminded him— "Did you talk to Uncle Arthur about cutting back on my night classes?" he asked, hopefully.

"Yes," Samantha nodded. "He said he and Aretha will cut back to three hours a night, from nine p.m. to midnight, so you'll have extra time for sleep at night." Harry nodded, relieved. "But you're still going to have homework to do, so you ought to plan your time accordingly."

"I will," Harry promised, happy to be off that grueling schedule. "Thanks, cousin Samantha."

"You're welcome, dear." Samantha gathered him in a quick hug, which Harry returned, though a bit self-consciously in front of Hermione. "See you at Thanksgiving," she said to Harry. "Bye, Hermione." Samantha snapped her fingers and disappeared.

They both stood there for a few seconds before Hermione turned to Harry. "You're going back at Thanksgiving?" she asked. "Isn't that an American holiday?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "But she asked if I wanted to come, and I thought I'd go and see what it's about."

"I have another question," Hermione said, as Harry started toward the Great Hall. Harry stopped and turned to her. "When we left Florida it was about 8:30 in the morning there, right?"

"Yeah," Harry shrugged. "So what?"

"So," Hermione pointed out, "it's about 8:30 here, too. But there's a five-hour time difference between Florida and Hogwarts — it ought to be about one-thirty in the afternoon here."

"Oh, that," Harry saw where she was going. "Yeah, if we'd left Florida at the correct time to get here at 8:30 it would have been about 3:30 in the morning there.

"But adult witches and warlocks can also teleport through _time_ ," Harry explained. Hermione's eyes widened at that, and she stared at him disbelievingly. "No, it's true," Harry assured her. "Cousin Samantha wanted us to get enough sleep and something to eat before we came back here, so we stayed long enough to have breakfast. She moved us back in time five hours when we popped in here. So while we're here, now, we're also back in Florida, still asleep."

"That's amazing!" Hermione said, awed. "But aren't there two of _her_ now that she's gone back to Florida?"

"Yeah, but when she goes back she'll just pop forward five hours, so it'll be like she returns a minute or so after we left. If she wanted to, she could return to the exact moment she left — it would be like she was never gone."

"Can _you_ do that, Harry?"

"Oh, no," Harry shook his head. "I need a _lot_ more practice teleporting before I try something like that! It only matters when you can travel across multiple time zones, anyway. I hope that by Thanksgiving I'll be able to travel home in one pop. Come on," he told her. "We have a few minutes to kill before our first class."

They both turned and started walking toward the doors of the Great Hall.

Just as they reached the doors Hermione suddenly stopped. "Oh, no, I forgot!"

"What'd you forget?" Harry asked. He didn't think Hermione would admit to forgetting _anything_.

"I need to go get my books for our morning classes," Hermione said worriedly. "But we have to go all the way up to Gryffindor Tower! I'm glad we had breakfast at Samantha's," she went on. "Otherwise I don't think I could have made it to lunch without a snack." She turned and started for the grand staircase.

"Hang on," Harry said. Hermione stopped and looked at him questioningly.

"I can get us there without having to run up seven flights of stairs," Harry said with a smug grin, stepping next to her. "Are you ready?"

"Hold on," Hermione stopped him. "I don't think we should cheat like that."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "How is that cheating?"

"Well, nobody can do it but _you_ , Harry," Hermione said. "You have an unfair advantage over everyone else in school. And if I let you help me like that, _I_ might start to get lazy and let you use your witchcraft for me more and more. Besides, we aren't supposed to be able to Apparate _anywhere_ inside Hogwarts."

"Teleporting isn't like Apparating," Harry pointed out, a little arrogantly. "And I can't help it if I can do things other students can't do. Do _you_ think it's unfair that you're smarter than everyone else in school?"

"That's _not_ the same thing," Hermione objected, a little upset by the comparison. "Nobody can help how smart they are!"

"And I can't help that I'm a warlock," Harry said.

Hermione put up her hands. "All right, fine," she grudgingly agreed. "Let's do it your way."

Harry smiled and lifted a hand, his fingers poised to snap. But—

"Well, well, look who's finally back," a drawling voice said, and Harry sighed inwardly. Draco Malfoy and his two huge shadows, Crabbe and Goyle, had come around the other side of the staircase, out of the door that led to the dungeons. "We missed you this weekend, Potter — you and your little girlfriend, there." Malfoy was grinning as he said this, and behind him Crabbe and Goyle were both sniggering. "So where were you?"

"What business is that of yours?" Harry asked, coldly. "Our Head of House knew where we were."

Malfoy shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Some of us have had some interesting ideas about what you and Granger were off doing," he drawled, lazily. "But, like you say, it's none of my business."

"Glad you see it my way," Harry muttered. He started up the staircase. "Come on, Hermione. Let's go get our books."

But before Hermione could follow him, Draco reached up and took hold of Harry's arm. "Hold on," he said. Harry shrugged out of the Slytherin's grip, but stopped and turned to face him. "Everybody's supposed to be in the Great Hall at 8:45 this morning, to meet the new Defense professor. Dumbledore's orders."

"Who's the new professor?" Hermione asked. Draco ignored her.

He spoke instead to Harry. "You're not going to disobey Dumbledore _again_ , are you?" he grinned nastily. "Remember what happened the last time you did that?"

Harry didn't rise to the bait. He walked back down the steps, saying, "Let's go, Hermione," and the two of them went into the Great Hall, leaving Malfoy smiling condescendingly after them.

"I don't think you're trying very hard to get on Potter's good side," Vincent Crabbe commented to Draco.

"Well, that's your first mistake, Crabbe," Draco retorted, still looking after the two Gryffindors. "You're not supposed to _think_ , you're supposed to make sure I'm safe here at school. Come on, let's go see what wanker Dumbledore got for the Defense job _this_ time."

Inside the Great Hall, Harry and Hermione approached the Gryffindor table as a great chorus of greetings (and a few wolf whistles) went up from it and the other House tables.

Hermione halted, mortified by the whistles, which seemed to give credence to what Malfoy had insinuated, but Harry took her by the arm and kept on walking.

The only open spots were next to Ron, who had insisted on holding them in case his two friends showed up. They sat down, nodding hellos to those around him as Ron, who looked fully recovered from his ordeal the week before, stared anxiously at them. He looked ready to pounce the moment they got settled, but before he could speak, at the High Table Professor Dumbledore chose that moment to stand, and the room instantly went silent.

"As most of you know," he said without preamble. "Professor Quirrell has experienced some…personal losses that prevent him from continuing to teach at Hogwarts…"

Harry could feel Ron's eyes on him. He knew without looking that Ron was bursting to ask him and Hermione about the past weekend. He kept his eyes on Dumbledore, however — he wished he had talked with Hermione about what to tell Ron before coming back to the school!

"So without further ado," the Headmaster was saying, "although I'm sure there will be _some_ ado after my introduction, I am pleased to present our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor — Gilderoy Lockhart!"

There was a collective _Oooooh_ from the female population of the Great Hall as Lockhart, wearing a robe of iridescent turquoise blue, with his long blond hair flowing behind him, swept into the room and pranced (that was the word that came to Harry's mind) up to the High table. Harry put a hand to his face, shaking his head. Not _this_ guy!

"Can you believe it?" Hermione was saying excitedly. "He's really here!" She, Lavender, Parvati and Fay Dunbar were all craning their necks to see as Dumbledore greeted Lockhart and asked him to introduce himself to the students and say a few words.

"Thank you, Headmaster!" Lockhart said loudly, turning so all four tables could see his gleaming, perfect smile. "Although I am sure _I_ need no introduction to your pupils! I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to teach these eager, young minds here at Hogwarts! I am pleased and proud I will be able to bring my extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts — that is, _Defense_ Against the Dark Arts — to all of you!

"Of course, I should let you all know there will be some changes in the curriculum, and there will be a few extra textbooks to buy." There were muted groans around the hall, mostly from the male population. Most of the girls were making cooing noises or beaming excitedly at the thought of actually getting to speak with Gilderoy Lockhart, who had an Order of Merlin, Third Class, was an Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, _and_ a five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award!

Lockhart dropped into the chair next to Dumbledore, where Professor McGonagall normally sat, forcing her to move down a chair. Harry watched the High Table for a few moments, noting that most of the other teachers did not seem as enthusiastic about the new professor as many of the girls in the Great Hall seemed to be. McGonagall was eyeing him warily, and Snape had an expression of utter contempt on his face.

It was fortunate, Harry thought, that Uncle Arthur hadn't come back to school with him and Hermione. He wouldn't have been able to resist pulling some pranks on Lockhart. Harry grinned to himself, wondering what their first teachers' meeting together would be like.

Dumbledore stood again just as the food disappeared from the four House tables. "Almost time for classes to begin," he said to them all. "Everyone have a very educational day!"

"So what happened with Quirrell?" Ron asked immediately after Dumbledore finished speaking. "I don't remember anything after we walked into that last room. And where did you two go?! Professor McGonagall told me Sunday when Madam Pomfrey let me out of the infirmary that you'd be back Monday morning! There's about a hundred rumors floating around, but McGonagall wouldn't tell me _anything_ , and nobody else really has a clue what went on down there beneath the school!"

Harry and Hermione glanced at one another. "Er," Harry cleared his throat, trying to think how to put this. "After you fainted, Ron, Uncle Arthur and his niece, my cousin Samantha, showed up and stopped Quirrell."

"Stopped him? How?"

"They surprised him," Hermione interjected. "They subdued him with a two-pronged attack."

"Ah," Ron nodded. The chess reference seemed to make sense to him. "So what happened after that? I know he's gone, but where'd they take him?"

"I think Quirrell was having some kind of breakdown," Harry said, lying. It was the first thing that popped into his head.

"Did they take him to St. Mungo's, then?" Ron asked. Harry wasn't sure what that was, so he glanced at Hermione.

"Yes," Hermione said. "He'll probably be there for a while, in the Janus Thickey ward." She gave Ron a knowing look. "A _long_ while."

Ron was nodding thoughtfully, as if that was appropriate. Harry would have to ask what the Janus Thickey ward was. "We'd better get to class," he said. "It's almost nine."

"Oh! No!" Hermione gave a little stamp of frustration. "We still don't have our books!" She looked at Harry questioningly. What did she expect, Harry wondered, that he would just reach in his back pocket and pull out their Herbology texts?

But Ron saved the day, sort of. "You can read out of my book," he said to both of them. "I remembered to bring it this time!" he added, smiling.

It was the last time Ron or Harry smiled that morning.

The Herbology greenhouse was filled with giggles and whispered conversations, most of them about Gilderoy Lockhart. Wasn't he _so_ handsome? Wasn't he _soo_ brave, to go on all those adventures he'd had? Wasn't his hair just _sooo_ wavy and soft? And that smile! It was _oooh-so_ brilliant! No wonder he's won the _Witch Weekly's_ Most Charming Smile award _five times_!

Professor Sprout was so disgusted at all the whispering and giggling that she finally assigned everyone weeding duty in the puffapod beds, and a longer reading assignment for homework. Ron managed to get a spot next to Harry and was bursting with questions, to Harry's chagrin.

"So where were you two this weekend?" Ron whispered as they weeded. "Neville said you were gone Friday and Saturday night, too. Fred and George told me that normally, _nobody_ can leave Hogwarts except on Hogsmeade weekends, but we can't go on those until third year."

"We went to my cousin Samantha's for a few days," Harry muttered, not wanting to say anything else. How would he explain that his cousin lived in _America_?

"Why'd Hermione go?" Ron wondered.

Harry bit his lip for a moment. "The fight with Quirrell shook her up a bit," he said. He leaned closer so Hermione wouldn't hear, but she was busy whispering with the other girls about Lockhart. "She got a bit hysterical — my cousin got her calmed down. I think it did her good to get away from here after something like that."

"Wish I could've gone, too," Ron said wistfully, digging at a particularly stubborn weed. "It'll be brilliant when you tell everyone you were out of school for the weekend, Harry!"

But Harry shook his head. "I'm not going to tell anyone, Ron," he said to him. "And don't _you_ tell, either." He wasn't going to explain about his parents, yet — Ron tended to repeat everything he heard to anyone who would listen, and Harry didn't want rumors and stories circulating about him meeting his parents. They'd been gone for ten years now; people would think he was loony!

"Why not?" Ron looked surprised. "Harry, it's a brilliant story, you've _got_ to tell everyone —!" There was a loud _Shhhh!_ from Professor Sprout, and he fell silent.

"No," Harry whispered a bit later. "It — it was _not_ a great weekend," he told Ron. Not exactly the truth, but there'd been a few sad moments along with the good times he'd had seeing his parents. "I — I was thinking about my mum and dad," he added. "I missed them a lot this weekend."

"Oh." Ron looked at him sympathetically. "I get it," he nodded. "Yeah, I'd be upset if something happened to _my_ mum and dad. Sorry, mate." He patted Harry on the shoulder.

"Thanks," Harry murmured, feeling bad for lying to Ron, but at this point he trusted Hermione to keep his secret a lot more than the youngest Weasley son, who seemed to tell his older brothers everything that happened. Fred and George were nice blokes, but there was _no telling_ what might happen if they learned that Harry was a warlock.

 **=ooo=**

The girls continued to chatter about Gilderoy Lockhart in Professor Flitwick's Charms class, who was no happier to hear about him than Sprout had been. At lunch it got worse, with the girls of all four Houses a-twitter about his books and his hair and on and on until Harry and Ron simply concentrated on their food and tuned out everything else, including Hermione, who was crushing on the new Defense teacher as hard as anyone.

"How can she not see through that poncy git?" Ron whispered to Harry as they each tucked into a shepherd's pie.

"Dunno," Harry shrugged. Hermione's reaction to Lockhart had surprised him — he hadn't expected her to be so much of a — well, a _schoolgirl_ about the guy. Not that he was _jealous_ or anything like that, Harry reminded himself. He and Hermione were just friends, like he and Ron.

History of Magic came after lunch, and Harry set about getting his Charms and Herbology homework done as Professor Binns droned on and on about ancient Greek witches and wizards like Circe, Mopsus, and Herpo the Foul, who had created the first Basilisk.

Next came Defense Against the Dark Arts class, what Harry had been dreading all day. He and Ron followed behind the group of girls _and_ boys who were enthusiastically discussing having Lockhart teaching them.

"Think of all the details he'll be able to tell us about his adventures!" Fay Dunbar gushed.

"Think of the magic he'll be able to _show_ us!" Dean Thomas said. "He's fought vampires! And werewolves!"

"That is a good point," Ron whispered to Harry. "Quirrell was a bit of a joke in our Defense classes — he never showed us any real magic, did he?"

"Nope," Harry said. But Quirrell hadn't been there to teach anyone; he just wanted to get the Philosopher's Stone — and try to kill Harry if he had the opportunity. Which he wouldn't have been able to do, although Samantha had pointed out Harry had certainly given him the opportunity by chasing after him, and compounded his error by involving Ron and Hermione in it as well.

"What _I_ want to know," Lavender Brown was saying, quite seriously, "is how he gets his hair so _silky_ looking. It's positively gorgeous!"

"Gag me," Ron muttered. "Can you believe her? Getting hair advice from a _man_?"

"Well, Lockhart _does_ have very nice hair, Ron," Harry said, deadpan. They looked at each other and snickered.

The Defense classroom now looked quite different than it had the week before. Quirrell had hung up strings and bags of garlic around the room, ostensibly to keep away vampires he said were stalking him; Harry decided that had just been an excuse he'd used to distract students with the smell, to keep their minds off the fact that he wasn't teaching them anything.

In contract, the classroom walls were now adorned with tapestries and paintings hung nearly everywhere. The tapestries depicted events from several of Lockhart's books (as Harry learned from the girls pointing at and describing the scenes whilst _oohing_ and _ahhing_ over them).

The Lockhart-admirers had commandeered all of the desks in the front of the classroom, which suited Harry fine. He and Ron took seats near the back of the class, as far from Lockhart as possible. Harry glanced around the room as they waited for class to begin. Most of the portraits were (naturally) of Lockhart himself, in various robes and hairstyles; all of his images were smiling and winking broadly at them, waving and striking increasingly silly poses that were meant to be heroic or dashing, Harry decided disgustedly.

"Is this bloke for real?" Ron was muttering beside him. "I wonder what the hell my Mum sees in him?"

Harry turned to him. "Your _mum_ likes this guy?"

"Oh, yeah," Ron admitted, embarrassed. "She buys all of his 'Helpful Household' rubbish books. Like _that_ git ever did a lick of housework in his life!"

At the front of the classroom, Neville had pulled something out of his pocket that looked like a large marble and was staring at it. "Is that a Remembrall?" Hermione, sitting next to him, asked.

"Yes," Neville smiled at her, pleased have someone talk to him. "My gran gave it to me for school. It turns red if I've forgotten something — uh oh." At that moment the marble had turned red in his hand.

"What did you forget?" Hermione asked in a kindly tone.

"Er —" Neville looked at her, embarrassed. "I forgot."

Lockhart entered the classroom. "Swept into" was more accurate, really, as he was wearing a blue cape that complemented his turquoise robe, as well as a feathered wizard's cap, which he doffed as he made a low, graceful bow to the class. The girls were eating all this foolishness up with a spoon, Harry noted sourly. "A most wonderful afternoon to you all!" Lockhart sang out, tossing the wizard's cap onto his desk and whipped off his cape, flinging it flamboyantly toward a cloak hook on the wall. It missed, and Harry and Ron smirked at one another. Lockhart seemed not to notice he'd missed.

He picked up a book off his desk, a copy of _Travels with Trolls_ , and pointed at the grinning, winking image of himself on the cover. "Me," he said proudly, and he grinned and winked at them just like his picture was doing. The girls in the room all sighed, while a few of the boys rolled their eyes or shook their heads, obviously seeing through Lockhart's act as well. Harry and Ron turned, grinning and winking broadly at one another, mocking him.

Lockhart went to the blackboard and began writing. He wrote his name on the board, "Gilderoy Lockhart." Under that he wrote "Order of Merlin, Third Class." Beneath that he wrote "Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League." He turned to face the class again. "I'm also five-times winner of _Witch Weekly's_ 'Most-Charming-Smile Award' — but I don't talk much about that."

"Why not?" Lavender piped up — the first girl to actually _speak_ to the great man since he'd arrived in class, Harry noted. Next to him, Ron snorted softly in derision.

"Well…" Lockhart flashed his brilliant, perfect smile once again. "I'm afraid it sometimes overly distracts the young ladies if I smile too much," he grinned. "And we _are_ trying to have a serious educational experience here."

 _Good_ , Harry thought. _Let's get down to business. Show us what you've got, Lockhart_.

Lockhart produced a teacher's valise from his robes and placed it on the desk. "Let's get started, shall we?" He rifled through the valise as everyone scrambled to get out parchment, quills and ink. "I know you haven't had time to purchase any of my textbooks," he muttered as he pulled out a parchment sheet. "So we'll just have to make do… Ah! Here we are! All right, all of you, write this down — I'm giving this very important information to all of my classes."

Quill tips were inked and poised over parchment as Lockhart carefully cleared his throat before speaking. "Let's start at the beginning. _Marauding with Monsters_ was my first book," he told them. "It came out in 1984, two years after I left Hogwarts. It's not one of our textbooks for this year — I mention it only with the suggestion that you read it for completeness, to get the full Gilderoy Lockhart experience."

Harry and Ron looked at each other blankly. _This_ was the important information he had for them? A _book list_?

"Next, I wrote _Wandering with Werewolves_ in 1985," Lockhart continued. "A very important volume — as you know, there has been recent legislation by the Ministry to grant more rights to these foul creatures. I highly recommend you read this with an eye toward their extreme savagery and cruelty!" He flashed a brilliant smile. "It's also my first bestseller!" he added, winking.

"In 1986 I completed _Voyages with Vampires_ ," Lockhart droned on. "Then in 1987 I doubled up on my writing output with _Holidays with Hags_ and _Gadding with Ghouls_ (my second bestseller, by the way) — their tone is a bit lighter than my previous tomes. Actually, I wrote _three_ books in 1987 — I also completed _Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests_ , which would make an _excellent_ Christmas present for your mothers, by the way!" He gave them a cheery thumb's up and another wink.

"The year after, in 1988, I wrote _Travels with Trolls_. Rather smelly blighters —"

"You can say _that_ again," Ron muttered to Harry. He jerked a thumb toward Lockhart. "Present company _included_. This bloke stinks." Harry grinned at the joke. He felt the same way.

"— but fortunately, the smell doesn't come through in my book. Although I _did_ include a sample sniff card in my _Travel Trilogy_ collection, which came out in 1988 as well!"

Ron looked at Harry. "Does he really expect us to _buy_ all these books?" he sputtered incredulously.

"I think so," Harry nodded, wincing as he realized how much extra reading they were going to have on top of all their other schoolbooks.

Lockhart was still naming off books! "In 1989 I took a _Break with a Banshee_ ," he said. "After that I spent a _Year with the Yeti_ , which came out in 1990. Naturally, after writing all of these book I realized I hadn't really had much to say about _myself_ , so I'm writing a _very_ extensive and revealing autobiography entitled _Magical Me_ , which will appear in fine wizarding bookstores everywhere next year."

The girls in the room were hanging on his every word. Harry and Ron could hardly bear to look at Lockhart anymore.

"Now, I realize that none of you are able to travel to London on your own to visit Flourish and Blotts," Lockhart beamed at them. "So I've persuaded them to bring my books _here_ , so you can buy them as quickly as possible!" Lockhart clapped his hands together briskly. " _Nothing_ is too good for my adoring public! The books will be up for sale in the entrance hall this afternoon between 4 and 6 p.m. Come early — only a limited supply is available, and I will be signing copies here in the Great Hall from 7 'til 8 p.m."

Ron was staring at the list of books in shock. "Bloody hell," he muttered to Harry. "My parents don't have the gold to spend on this rubbish!"

"Don't worry about it, Ron," Harry whispered to him. "I can buy them for you."

"Would you?" Ron looked both relieved and embarrassed. "I wouldn't normally ask— We'll pay you back," he added quickly.

"It's no problem," Harry insisted. He already felt bad enough about excluding Ron from the truth about his witchcraft — there was no need to let him get behind in his schoolwork because some self-important git like Lockhart insisted on assigning his own books as reading material.

"Thanks," Ron said, feelingly. "Mum and Dad'll pay you back as soon as they can."

"Don't worry about it," Harry muttered, but Ron shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "Dad's got this thing about us going to school — we Weasleys pay for our own education. Hogwarts gets enough money from the Ministry without us having to accept charity to come here."

"It's no big deal, Ron," Harry told him. "I've got a whole vault of gold over at Gringotts."

"Nope," Ron said adamantly. "It's one of Dad's iron-clad rules. No exceptions." After a few moments, however, he glanced over at Harry. "Er—how much gold?" he asked.

"I don't know," Harry said honestly. "It's not a big vault, but it's full of gold, silver and bronze coins."

"You _don't know_ how much gold you've got?" Ron stared at him, astonished. " _I'd_ know, right down to the last Knut, if I had my own vault! How'd you get to see it, if you didn't have the key?"

Harry winced to himself. He and Samantha had popped down to the vault to sneak a look inside, even though they didn't have the key. And Samantha insisted on buying his school supplies for him even though his parents had left him all that gold. But he couldn't tell Ron that without revealing his and Samantha's powers. "Er, the goblins told us about the vault," he lied.

"So if you don't have the key, who does?" Ron asked.

That was a good question. "I think the Headmaster does," Harry said. "He's probably forgotten to give it to me."

"Oh," Ron said. "But why would he have it at all? Isn't your cousin Samantha the one taking care of you? I thought she'd have it."

Harry shrugged, as if it wasn't important, but Ron was making sense. He'd been at the Dursleys for ten years, but if _they'd_ known he had a vault full of gold they would have cleaned it out years ago! Since Dumbledore was the one who put him with his aunt and uncle, and he'd had his father's Invisibility Cloak, it stood to reason he had the vault key as well. Harry would have to see about getting that key back. That gold might come in handy someday!

Now Lockhart was pulling a stack of parchment sheets out of his valise. "Since we have some extra time today," he said, passing out the sheets to the class face-down on their desks. "I've prepared a short quiz for you, to test your knowledge." There were groans from around the room, mostly from the boys. "Now, now, don't worry, everyone," Lockhart assured them. "None of these questions are hard. It's just a bit of fun, really — you'll see once we begin." He returned to the front of the class. "Alright, you have thirty minutes — starting — _now_!"

Harry and Ron turned over their sheets and stared at the first question.

 _1\. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?_

They glanced at each other. "Is this a joke?" Ron whispered.

"I doubt it," Harry muttered in reply. The second and third questions were no better.

 _2\. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?  
_ _3\. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?_

And so it went, question after question, 54 in all. Harry turned the sheet back over on its face, refusing to even look at it. This was shaping up to be as bad as Quirrell — worse, even because while Quirrell was doing Voldemort's bidding, Lockhart seemed to be doing this simply because he was greedy and self-important. Ron followed suit, turning over his quiz as well, and the two of them spent the next half-hour quietly abusing Lockhart mercilessly — mocking everything from his perfect blond hair and teeth to the inane quiz about himself.

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and minced his way back to the front of the class, where he began going through the questions. He began shaking his head, clearly disappointed with what he was seeing. "Hardly any of you knew that my favorite color is lilac. I mentioned that in _Year with the Yeti_ , in case you want to look it up." As Harry watched, many of the girls in the class quickly scribbled that down in their notebooks. He shook his head in disbelief. At least Hermione hadn't copied it down, he saw with relief.

"My ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magical and non-magical people, as I wrote in _Wanderings with Werewolves_. Although I admit, I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, either!" he chortled. Harry noticed several girls writing that down; Hermione wasn't one of them, but she was listening to Lockhart with a rapturous expression on her face.

A horrible suspicion suddenly came into Harry's head. What if she wasn't writing these things down because she _already knew them_? A moment later his worst fears were confirmed when Lockhart held up a single quiz sheet.

"But here I see, a Miss Hermione Granger did know my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil, and to market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl!" he beamed at her. He scanned the rest of her sheet. "In fact — full marks for Miss Granger! Ten points to Gryffindor for this fine work! Where are you?"

Hermione raised her hand, smiling and embarrassed at the same time. "Excellent, my dear!" Lockhart beamed at her. "Quite excellent! And the rest of you—" he said, waggling a finger sternly at them, to Harry's annoyance. "I'm afraid you've got some reading to do."

Irritated, Harry pointed a finger at the quizzes Lockhart held, then raised his hand. "Please, Professor," he said in a hesitant tone. "How did _I_ do?"

Lockhart smiled indulgently. "Let's see, shall we? What's your name, my good fellow?"

"Harry Potter, sir."

Lockhart's head snapped up. "Ah! Harry Potter!" he said in a delighted tone. "Professor Dumbledore told me you'd be here this year!"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, sinking down into his seat and wondering if the prank he'd just pulled was really a good idea. But before he could undo it Lockhart had whipped his paper out of the others in his hand.

"Here we are!" he said, holding it aloft. "Now, Harry, let's see how well you did." He scanned the paper, his eyebrows lifting higher and higher as he did. "My word!" he said, impressed. "Every answer correct, just like Miss Granger's!" Everyone in class turned around to stare at Harry in surprise. "Ten more points to Gryffindor!" Lockhart said happily.

The new Defense professor grinned slyly at Harry. "I would think you'd copied Miss Granger's answers, Harry, but you are obviously sitting nowhere near her." He started to put the sheets down on his desk when another one caught his eye. "Extraordinary!" he said a few moments later. " _Another_ perfect paper! This one belongs to Mr. Ron Weasley," he said, looking at the young red-head.

"Me?" Ron squeaked.

"Indeed!" Lockhart beamed. "Another ten points to Gryffindor! My, this is certainly a good day for you young lions!" he chuckled.

Everyone in class turned again to stare at Ron. "What's going on?" Dean Thomas muttered. Harry was smirking with repressed humor until he saw Hermione glaring daggers at him. _She_ knew what he'd done.

"Well, kudos to the three of you," Lockhart applauded. "Now, so much for getting acquainted," he went on. "Shall we get down to the business of Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

Everyone faced forward again, eager to see what magic Professor Lockhart would show them first. Lockhart, smiling mysteriously, reached behind his desk and brought up a large covered cage, setting it on the desk in front of him.

"What's this?" Harry asked in a bored tone. "A cage full of killer budgies?"

Every girl in the room turned and glared at him. Lockhart was chuckling jovially. "Very amusing, Harry, but it is my job to prepare you to defend yourself against the foulest creatures known to wizard kind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

Lockhart placed a hand on the cloth covering the cage. Many of the girls were looking apprehensive now. Neville, in the front row between Hermione and Fay Dunbar, was practically cowering in his chair. Even Harry and Ron watched, curious to see what Lockhart considered so dangerous.

"I must ask you not to scream," Lockhart warned them, in a low voice. "It

might provoke them." As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover of the cage.

" _Behold_!" he said, dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies!"

Harry slumped in relief. Pixies were described in the _Book of Magic_. They were about 8 inches tall, bright blue in color, and could be quite mischievous but not dangerous unless you encountered them in large numbers, which was seldom since they tended to quarrel among themselves when in larger groups. Harry quickly counted about 20 pixies in the cage — just enough to be a bother if they were free. They were quite agitated now that the cover was off the cage, and were all jumping about the cage, jabbering and making bizarre faces at the people in the front row. In spite of them being caged, Neville still looked petrified of them.

"Excuse me, Professor?" Dean Thomas spoke up. "But they don't _look_ very dangerous to me."

"Ah, but looks can be deceiving, my lad!" Lockhart waggled a finger annoyingly at Dean. "A bunch of devilishly tricky little blighters these can be!" Lockhart reached for the cage door, and Harry gasped in horror as he realized what the professor intended to do. He was going to set those things loose on them! Hermione, Neville, and most of the Gryffindor girls were up on the first row — the pixies would attack them!

"What's he _doing_?" Ron gasped at the same moment, divining Lockhart's intention as well. He jumped to his feet. "Professor, _don't_ —!"

But Lockhart had already opened the cage, saying loudly, "Let's see what you make of them!"

Harry stood as Ron did, but instead of shouting at Lockhart to stop, he cast a spell on the Defense professor, making him the sole target of the pixies' fury. The pixies shot out of the cage and into the air, seeming to form a bluish cloud in the air before rocketing down toward Lockhart, who shrieked in terror and tried to dive under his desk.

The pixies pulled him out and began swarming around him, pulling his hair, tearing at his robes, throwing books and papers from his desk at him, spraying him with ink from the inkwells on his desk, all the while screaming and jabbering angrily at him. Lockhart looked as if the hounds of hell were tearing him to bits, though the pixies weren't actually hurting him. "Help! Help!" he screeched at the first-years. "Get them off of me!"

But most of the class had wisely chosen to beat a hasty retreat out of the classroom, leaving only Harry, Ron and Hermione in the room with Lockhart and the pixies. "Help him!" Hermione shouted frantically at Harry. "They're killing him!"

"They're not dangerous, Hermione," Harry told her. "At least, not for a competent wizard, according to their Ministry rating."

"Well, if _you're_ not going to help him, I _am_!" she shouted at him. She pulled out her wand and pointed it toward Lockhart and his attackers. " _Immobulus_!" she shouted, and three of the pixies immediately went stiff and fell to the floor. She repeated the spell several more times, stopping the pixies in twos and threes, until all of them were lying immobile on the floor. Lockhart, cowering in fear with his arms covering his head and face, slowly stood, seeing them all motionless at his feet. He smiled weakly at Hermione.

"Good show, Miss Granger," he said, flashing a brilliant smile at her. "I'm glad to see _you_ , at least, know the proper procedure for stopping the little blighters. My — ah — helplessness was a mere sham, to test the class's preparedness in case of an emergency. Well done! Take 10 extra points for Gryffindor!"

Lockhart quickly gathered up his valise. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said. "I'm off to prepare my lesson plan for the next class." He bolted from the room.

Harry and Ron looked at each other and shook their heads. Unbelievable.

Lockhart returned a moment later. "Ah, boys," he said, pointing to the pixies on the floor. "Would you kindly nick these little beasts back into their cage? There's my good lads!" He disappeared again.

Hermione was still glaring at him, Harry saw. "I know what you did, Harry Potter!" she said, accusingly. "You ought to know better!" She disappeared as well, leaving Harry and Ron alone with the frozen pixies.

"What'd you do?" Ron asked, looking at Harry quizzically.

"I dunno," Harry lied, annoyed with both Hermione and himself — her for having such a stupid crush on Lockhart, and himself for being a jerk about it. "Let's get these pixies back in their cage before that spell wears off."

 **=ooo=**

The rest of the week didn't go much better. Hermione refused to speak to Harry after that, ignoring him or walking away whenever he was present. Ron tried to talk to her, but came back to Harry telling him that Hermione said he knew what he'd done and when he was ready to apologize to her he could speak for himself. The rest of the school seemed this think this was highly amusing, as if Harry and Hermione _were_ boyfriend and girlfriend just having a little spat, although Harry insisted to Ron they were only friends.

On the other side of the coin, _Draco Malfoy_ , of all people, insisted that he believed Potter and Granger were just friends, as Harry had said. Had Malfoy reconsidered what Harry had told him in the trophy room the week before that they didn't have to fight or be enemies? He and Malfoy had passed each other several times in the hall that week, and Malfoy always gave a friendly nod and wave to Harry. Perhaps he _had_ changed.

Ron didn't think so. "I don't trust him," he told Harry after Harry mentioned Thursday at lunch that Malfoy was sticking up for him. "Only a week ago he challenged you to a duel, Harry! And he's a _Malfoy_! You can't trust people like that!"

"People can change, Ron," Harry pointed out to him. "Look at you and Hermione — you didn't like her at all when you first met, but now you're friends."

"And _you_ liked her right away, and now she's not speaking to you," Ron shot back. "So there's that too, isn't it?"

"We're just having —"

"A lover's spat?" Ron finished for him, sarcastically.

"A _disagreement_ ," Harry corrected. "How many times do I have to tell you, we're just friends?!"

"That's not what everyone else in school thinks."

"I don't _care_ what everyone else in school thinks," Harry snapped, wishing that were true. _He_ really didn't, but Hermione was obviously affected by it. Harry felt that some of the reason why she wasn't talking to him was that she wanted to dispel the rumors that they were boyfriend and girlfriend. Well, that was fine by him, too, thank you very much!

"Listen," Harry said. "We've got flying class this afternoon." Ron looked up at him and grinned. If there was anything that could put Ron in a good mood, it was the chance to get on a broom. He'd been talking about all during the week. "The Slytherins are in the class with us — why don't you talk to Malfoy yourself, see if you think he's being sincere about being my friend?"

Ron looked dubious, but nodded. "Alright," he said at last. "But he's going to have to be pretty damned sincere to convince me."

Flying class took place after Astronomy, and was held in a classroom just off the entrance hall on the ground floor of the school. Their instructor was Madam Hooch, a thin older witch with gray hair in a spiky hairdo and piercing, yellow eyes, like those of a hawk. For the first ninety minutes she went over the details of what made brooms fly, from the basic flying enchantments placed on the wood and broom twigs to Cushioning, Braking and Reversing Charms.

Next it was out the front doors of the school and onto the grounds for their first practical lesson in flying. Madam Hooch brought them over to a section of the grounds where 20 broomsticks were laid out on the ground in two rows of ten. She had the Gryffindors stand next to one set of brooms, the Slytherins with the other set, facing them.

Harry watched as the other students examined their brooms with expressions ranging from eagerness to dread. While Malfoy had a bored look on his face, like he was an old hand at flying, Hermione's expression was almost comical. Neville looked pretty intimidated as well; the rest of the Gryffindors were being more or less stoically brave about the situation. And the other Slytherins looked like they were used to flying already. It figured, Harry thought; being pure-blood apparently had its advantages.

"Hold your wand hand over your broom," Hooch ordered them. "Then say, 'Up!'"

Everyone began calling out "Up!" with varied results. Some brooms barely moved, while others, like Malfoy's, leapt up into his waiting hand. Hermione was half-heartedly pleading with her broom to move. Next to him, Ron was beaming at the broom that had jumped up into his hand at his first "Up!"

"Ron, why don't you go help Hermione?" Harry suggested, nodding his head in her direction.

Ron looked over at her. She was practically in tears now, trying to get the broom to do something other than lay there. "She looks pretty hopeless, doesn't she?" he said, sympathetically. He took a deep breath, but before walking away he glanced at the broom on the ground next to Harry. "What about you?" he asked. "Your broom hasn't moved yet, either."

"I've got it," Harry said, unconcerned. "I'm going to give Neville a hand first." They both glanced toward Neville Longbottom, who was patiently holding his hand out and calling "Up," though there was a quaver in his voice that sounded like he'd prefer the broom to stay where it was.

"Good luck," Ron said, meaning it, then went to help Hermione. Harry stepped over to where Neville was standing.

"How's it going?" Harry asked.

"Not too well," Neville admitted unhappily. "It won't move."

"Don't be afraid of it, Neville," Harry suggested. "It's not going to bite you."

"I know that," Neville said, a trace of irritation in his voice that made Harry smile. He'd begun to wonder whether Neville should have been Sorted into Gryffindor — he seemed more like a Hufflepuff: loyal to his friends but not overly brave on his own. "I'm not afraid of a broom!"

"Well then, _act_ like it!" Harry ordered him. "Tell that thing to jump up in your hand! Go on, do it!"

Neville got a determined look on his face. He stared down at the broom. "Up!" he commanded, and the broom shuddered, then jumped up into his hand! "Merlin!" Neville exclaimed. "It worked!"

"Good job, Neville," Harry smiled. "Remember, you're the boss, not the broom." He walked back to his own broom and stuck out his hand. The broom floated up into his hand without him saying a word.

Next Hooch had them mount their brooms, and they stood in place holding them so they were resting on the Cushioning Charm that activated whenever someone held the broom like they were doing.

"Make sure your dominant hand is forward on the broomstick," Hooch told them as she walked up and down the rows correcting their stance and grip. "No, Mr. Malfoy, that is not correct," she said to the Slytherin. He was holding his hands together on the shaft.

"I've been doing it this way for years!" Malfoy said indignantly.

"Then you've been doing it _wrong_ for years," Hooch retorted. There were laughs and giggles along both rows as Malfoy turned bright red.

"Let's try a little hovering next," Madam Hooch suggested. "When I blow my whistle, each of you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your broomsticks in both hands — you will rise a few feet in the air. To come down, you will lean forward slightly. On my mark! Three — two —"

Suddenly Neville, with newfound courage, jumped as Madam Hooch brought the whistle to her lips. He shot up into the air, to gasps of surprise from the other students.

"Come back!" Hooch shouted. "Lean forward!" But Neville was rising higher and higher. He was ten feet in the air, then twenty. Neville was staring straight up into the sky, afraid to look down.

"NEVILLE!" Harry yelled up at him. "COME DOWN!" Neville leaned to one side to look down at Harry, which was his undoing, because he leaned too far and slipped off the broom and fell.

Harry watched him, wondering when Neville was going to catch himself, when he suddenly realized that _Neville couldn't fly_. Silently cursing his lapse, Harry made a quick gesture creating a cushion beneath where Neville was falling. Neville hit the invisible cushion. And bounced off, landing awkwardly on an outstretched hand. Harry winced as he heard a _crack_ ; he knew Neville's wrist was broken. The broom continued to rise in the air until it floated out over the lake to the south of the castle.

Madam Hooch was instantly at Neville's side, carefully examining his hand. "Broken wrist," she said curtly. "Come on, boy, up you get." Helping Neville to his feet, she turned to the rest of the class.

"No one is to move while I take this boy to the infirmary," she said sharply, her eyes boring into each of theirs. Especially Harry's, it seemed. "Leave those brooms where they lay or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.'" She put an arm around Neville's shoulders. "Come on, dear."

She led a sniffling Neville away, into the front doors of the school. As soon as they disappeared inside, Malfoy and the Slytherins began chuckling. "What a great lump!" Malfoy sneered. "Did you see his face, the big crybaby!"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Parvati snapped at him. "That could've been you!"

"Not likely, Patil," Malfoy sniggered. "I know how to ride a broom!"

"Just not correctly," Harry commented. Malfoy shot him a look, then grinned.

"I guess not," he said, his demeanor changing from taunting to friendly in a moment. The other Slytherins regarded one another with raised eyebrows. What had gotten into Malfoy? Weren't he and Potter mortal enemies?

"Hey, lookit this," Crabbe said, picking up something that lay in the grass near where Neville fell. He stared at it. "What is this?"

Harry recognized it at once. It was Neville's Remembrall from that morning in Defense class. He held out his hand. "That's Neville's," he said. "I'll hold it for him."

Malfoy put his hand out, and Crabbe dropped the Remembrall into it. Malfoy studied the Remembrall casually. "This is supposed to help you remember things?" he asked. "Longbottom should've remembered he couldn't fly a broom!" he laughed.

"Hand it over, Malfoy," Harry said, stepping forward.

But Malfoy took a step back, toward where his broom lay. "Tell you what, Potter," he said, grinning. "I'll race you round the Quidditch pitch for it." He pointed to the west, where the Quidditch pitch lay. "First one round the other side and back here gets to keep the Remembrall."

"You're not supposed to fly, Mr. Potter!" Hermione loudly reminded him. Harry tried not to wince as he heard her use his last name. "You'll get expelled! You heard what Madam Hooch said!"

"I guess your girlfriend's right," Malfoy shrugged. "Here." He tossed the Remembrall to Harry.

Harry looked at the Remembrall, then at Malfoy. He handed the ball to Ron. "Give this to whichever of us gets back first," he said.

Ron grinned at him. "I know you can beat him, Harry!" he said enthusiastically. "Show him what you've got!"

The other Gryffindors and Slytherins both began talking excitedly as they realized the race was on. Hermione, however, was of a different opinion.

"Are you mental?!" Hermione snapped at him as he reached out and his broom jumped into his hand. "You're going to get expelled!" Harry didn't reply, he just winked at her and walked over next to where Malfoy was standing, his broom at the ready.

"Ron, stop him!" Hermione demanded.

"Are you crazy?" Ron said, refusing. "This is going to be brilliant!"

Harry and Malfoy lined up on their brooms facing the Quidditch pitch. "When Crabbe says one-two-three- _go_ ," he said to Harry. Harry nodded. Malfoy nodded at Crabbe, winking as he did so. Crabbe smiled deviously in reply.

"GO!" Crabbe said suddenly, and Malfoy shot into the air, leaving Harry flat-footed.

"Go! Go! Go!" Ron and the other Gryffindors (except for Hermione) shouted at Harry, who shot off in pursuit. That had been a good trick on Malfoy's part, Harry thought crossly, but it wasn't going to help him win. Harry could outfly the Slytherin even _without_ a broom!

Harry poured magical energy into his broom, pushing it past its usual maximum speed, and by the time Malfoy was rounding the side of the pitch Harry was right behind him. Malfoy leaned in close to the stands, swerving back and forth in front of Harry to keep him from going around. Harry smiled to himself, letting Malfoy show off his moves — once they were headed back toward the castle his superior speed would win the race.

However, as they reached the other end of the stadium Malfoy suddenly swerved between two of the stands, taking a shortcut across the pitch back toward the castle. Harry, caught unawares, went around the next stand in hot pursuit, but Malfoy had pulled ahead. Gritting his teeth, Harry poured more magical energy into his broom, accelerating until he was close enough to touch the tail twigs on Malfoy's broom. But he was still behind and there wasn't enough time to catch up and pass him.

Malfoy must've though he might, though, because he held up a hand as they zoomed toward the others. "Throw it! THROW IT!" he screamed. Crabbe grabbed the Remembrall from Ron and flung it into the air. But he misjudged their approach and the Remembrall went sailing over both their heads, high into the air.

"You idiot!" Malfoy yelled at Crabbe as he hit the brakes, spinning his broom around to go after the ball. Harry, meanwhile, executed a tight curve and rocketed after the ball, gauging its trajectory to anticipate where it would fall. Malfoy was trying to chase it over its arc, which wasn't going to work — it would hit the ground and break before he caught up with it.

Harry zoomed along beneath Malfoy, watching the Remembrall as it fell toward him, with Malfoy flying after it in hot pursuit. Closer, closer, closer the ball came, until it and Harry intercepted each other perfectly, his right hand clasping the ball only inches above the ground. He braked hard, his feet touching down as he skidded to a halt on the ground. Malfoy pulled up, cursing to himself, to avoid auguring into the dirt.

Harry held up the Remembrall, smirking at Malfoy as the Slytherin looped around and landed next to him. "Nice try," he said to the blond-haired boy.

Malfoy looked chagrined, but nodded. "You caught it, fair and square," he admitted. "You win."

"HARRY POTTER!"

Harry and Malfoy both turned toward the shout, and Harry's elation at his win sank into the ground without a trace. Professor McGonagall was running toward them. "Never —!" she huffed as she stopped in front of them. "In all — my days at Hogwarts — have I seen such a display of sheer—"

"It wasn't his fault, Professor," Malfoy said suddenly. Harry looked at him in surprise. "I goaded him into it."

"I'll deal with you later, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall snapped at him. "Potter, follow me."

McGonagall led him past the other Gryffindors and Slytherins, who watched them walk to the school. The Slytherins, except for Draco, were smiling and laughing as he was led away. The Gryffindors, in contrast, looked stricken. Ron looked as if Harry had just died right in front of him. Hermione was shaking her head as if to say, _I-told-you-so_! Dean and Seamus and the girls had expressions of shock on their faces, as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing. Was Harry Potter really going to get expelled less than two weeks into the school term?

McGonagall led him into the school, stopping once they reached the entrance hall. "Where did you learn to fly like that?" she asked him suddenly.

Harry hadn't expected a pre-expulsion question like that one. Usually they were more along the lines of, "Do you realize how dangerous/foolish/reckless that was?" or "What kind of example do you think you're setting for the other students?"

"Um," he muttered, unsure what to say. "I've been practicing for a couple of months now."

McGonagall stared at him for long seconds, her expression unreadable. Then, "Follow me," she said, leading him up the grand staircase. She took him down several corridors, stopping in front of a classroom door. Opening the door, she leaned inside.

"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick," Harry heard her say. "May I borrow Wood for a moment?"

Wood turned out to be a large fifth-year student who came out into the hallway looking confused. "Did I do something wrong, Professor?" he asked, staring curiously at Harry.

"Just follow me," she said, and led them into an empty classroom, where she shut the door behind them and turned to Wood.

"I think I've found you a Seeker, Oliver."

Wood grinned in delight. _Ah_ , Harry thought. _So_ that's _what's going on here_! _My dad was right — she really is into Quidditch_!

"Are you serious, Professor?" Wood asked, looking Harry over excitedly. "He looks a bit small for a second-year."

"That's because he's a first-year," McGonagall said, a tiny smile on her lips.

"Really?" Wood looked impressed. "How long have you been flying, kid?"

"A few months," Harry said, bristling a bit at the "kid" appellation. "And call me Harry."

"Mr. Potter's a natural," McGonagall said. "I've never seen anything like what he did today — caught an object no bigger than a marble as it fell out of the sky, at full speed on his broom."

"That's just what we need," Wood agreed. "We've got to do something or Slytherin's going to slaughter us _again_ this year."

"Wait a minute, time out," Harry said, holding up his hands in a T-formation. McGonagall and Wood both looked at him. "I'm not even sure I want to _play_ Quidditch," he told them. "I've got a lot of schoolwork to get through, every day — I don't know if I'll have time for sports."

Wood looked stricken. "But—you've _got_ to play!" he said desperately. "I thought you'd _want_ to — isn't that why the Professor brought you to me?"

"I thought she was going to expel me," Harry said, honestly. "I wasn't supposed to be on my broom when I caught that Remembrall."

McGonagall was giving him a hard look. "Expulsion may _not_ be off the table, Mr. Potter," she said, quite seriously. "If you don't intend to play —"

"That sounds a lot like blackmail," Harry remarked matter-of-factly.

"Think of it as your Head-of-House exercising her prerogatives," McGonagall stated flatly, folding her arms across her chest.

Harry stared at her for a few seconds, then turned to Wood. "Excuse us a second, Oliver," he said.

"What? What are you—" Wood froze in mid-word as Harry snapped his fingers.

McGonagall stared at Wood for a long moment, then passed her hand in front of his face; he didn't react. "What are you doing, Mr. Potter?" she demanded.

"Just a bit of blackmail of my own," Harry said evenly. "I want Ron on the team, too."

"That's up to Mr. Wood," the Transfiguration professor shook her head. "I don't interfere in his decisions as Quidditch captain —"

"Oh, so you're _not_ interfering now, bringing me up here to see Wood," Harry asked her. McGonagall didn't answer, her lips set in a thin line. "That's what I thought," Harry said. "So, I'm your new Seeker, and Ron and I are both on the team. Is it a deal?"

The Deputy Headmistress stared long and hard at him for some time, but in the end Quidditch won over correctness. "It's a deal," she said curtly. "I'll see that Wood puts Mr. Weasley on the team."

"Good," Harry nodded. He glanced toward Wood and gestured casually with one hand.

"—doing?" Wood finished his statement, able to move again. He looked at Harry and McGonagall. "Did I miss something?"

"I'm on the team," Harry informed him. "Professor McGonagall and I worked out a deal beforehand. She'll fill you in on the details." Wood looked at her, eyebrows raised questioningly.

McGonagall nodded, not looking happy. _Too bad_ , Harry thought. Even if neither of them was getting what they really wanted, at least Ron's dream of playing Quidditch during his first year would happen. Harry turned, heading for the classroom door.

"Thanks, Professor, Oliver," he said over his shoulder. "Let me know when practice starts." He left the classroom.

Wood looked at McGonagall. "What happened?"

"Well, the good news is, we've got Potter on the team," McGonagall said.

"What's the bad news?" Wood asked warily, suspecting some was coming with the good.

"We've got more team members than we bargained for."

 **=ooo=**

When Harry stepped into the Gryffindor common room he was met immediately by Ron and Hermione, both of them looking very unhappy.

"Merlin, I'm sorry, Harry!" Ron said as soon as he was inside. "I shouldn't have encouraged you to race Malfoy! It's all my fault you're expelled!"

"No, I'm —" Harry began.

"Harry," Hermione cut him off. "I wish you'd listened to me, I knew something bad like this was going to happen! I'm — I'm going to miss you!" She impulsively hugged him, then let go and covered her face and turned away so he wouldn't see her cry.

"But I'm—" Harry tried again.

"Listen," Ron said, cutting him off again. "My father works at the Ministry of Magic. I'll talk to him, see if there's something he can do to get you back in school. You know," he pointed out, getting fired up, "if they're expelling _you_ , they ought to expel Malfoy as well! He's just as guilty as you were! I'll bet my Dad could even get some legislation passed that would make it so they'd have to expel Malfoy if they expel you —!"

"I'm not expelled," Harry finally managed to wedge the statement in between Ron's gibbering.

"It's just not bloody fair," Ron said angrily. "They can't do this to you — uh, what?"

"I'm not expelled," Harry said again. "McGonagall wants me on the Quidditch team."

Ron and Hermione both stared at him for a long time (it felt like a long time, but it was only three or four seconds). Then—

"No way!" Ron exclaimed. "You're _on the Quidditch team_?!" He pounded Harry excitedly on the back. "That's _great_ , Harry! Isn't that great, Hermione?"

"Congratulations, Harry," Hermione said, her voice flat.

"Boy!" Ron enthused. "Wait'll Fred and George hear about this!"

"We've already heard," Fred said, as he and George came in the room from the dormitory staircase. "Harry's our new Seeker. Oliver told us right after our last class. Congratulations, Harry," he said, extending a hand to him. "And welcome aboard."

"Thanks," Harry said, shaking his and then George's hands. He turned to Ron. "You're on the team too, Ron. I worked it out with Wood and McGonagall."

Ron's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Merlin's pants!" he exclaimed, looking as shocked as Harry had ever seen him. "I — I can't believe it!"

"Believe it, little brother," Fred said. "Oliver told us, too, but we wanted to let Harry give you the news." He and George both clapped Ron on the back hard enough that Ron was pushed forward a bit.

Harry turned and smiled at Hermione, who was still staring at him. "Sorry I couldn't get you on the team, too, Hermione, but I thought you might want to sit this year out," he joked. She gave a small snort of disgust and said nothing.

George leaned toward Harry and said in a loud whisper, "Your girlfriend doesn't look too happy, does she?"

"She's probably afraid that all the girls will be after her boyfriend now," Fred remarked.

"Now don't _you_ _two_ start!" Harry snapped. "She's _not my girlfriend_!" Hermione turned and ran up the girls' dorm staircase.

Fred and George watched her disappear, then turned sheepishly back to him. "Sorry, mate," Fred said apologetically. "We were just kidding around. We'll apologize to her the next time we see her."

"Thanks," Harry said. "I wish she wasn't so sensitive about it — I keep telling everyone we're _not_ boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Maybe _that's_ the problem, Potter," another girl, a second-year who was sitting nearby, spoke up. "You're coming on pretty strong that she's _not_ your girlfriend — don't you think there's something wrong with that?"

Harry stared at the second-year. "Who're you?" he asked, a bit rudely. Why was this girl trying to butt into their conversation?

"This is Katie," Fred said. "Katie Bell. She's on the Quidditch team, too — she one of our Chasers." As he spoke she got up and came over to their group, holding out her hand to Harry. After a moment he took it and they shook.

"Welcome to the team," Katie said. "You too, Weasley," she added to Ron. She turned back to Harry. "So what's wrong with you and Hermione being boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"I don't think it's _wrong_ ," Harry explained. "But we just _aren't_. I mean, I've never had a girlfriend before. How do you even know when you've got one?"

"Oh, you'll know," George said, with a rueful grin. "But I think what Katie means is —"

"I think I can speak for myself, George," Katie interrupted him. George shut up, smiling and gesturing toward Harry as if to say, "please continue."

"You're hurting her feelings," Katie said. "It's like you're saying, 'I don't _want_ to be your boyfriend.'"

"I'm not saying that at all!" Harry objected. He reconsidered a moment. "I wasn't _trying_ to, at least."

"Well, you are," Katie declared. "I think you ought to have a talk with her as soon as you can."

Harry shrugged. "Okay," he said, walking over to the staircase, feeling the eyes of all three Weasleys and Katie Bell on him. As he started up, however, the stairs suddenly flattened, and Harry pitched forward onto his face, sliding down the now-smooth incline to the common room floor. He jumped up immediately. "What the hell?!"

Katie, Fred and George were all snickering. Ron had his hand over his mouth, as if hiding a smile. "Sorry, Harry," Fred said, still chuckling. "But boys can't go up the girls' dorm room staircase. The stairs vanish and the incline becomes almost frictionless."

Harry touched his nose, which he'd bruised a bit. "You could have told me before I tried to climb it," he muttered.

" _Could_ have," George cheerfully agreed. "But then we'd have denied ourselves the fun of watching you fall on your face."

"Nice," Harry snapped. "Glad you got a laugh. Excuse me," he growled, then turned and walked away, going up to his dorm room and dropping onto his bed. "Ouch," he muttered as his nose hit the bed covers. Harry rolled over on his back and stared up at the canopy top of his bed. He gestured and the curtains on his bed closed, giving him some privacy. He touched his nose again, but with his warlock healing ability the soreness was already starting to subside.

Harry laid there for a while, thinking but not really thinking. It was as if he didn't know what he ought to think about. Hermione being or _not_ -being his girlfriend? Getting Ron on the Quidditch team with him? And then there were his late night sessions with Arthur and Aretha! He still had to go to those classes tonight. Harry closed his eyes, trying not to think about things.

Soft footsteps came into the dorm room, went over to Ron's bed and climbed in. Harry heard him speaking softly to someone; it must be Scabbers, Harry decided. Ron told his rat everything interesting that happened to him; certainly, getting on the Quidditch team in his first year qualified! Frankly, however, Harry would be content if Ron was a better Seeker than he was — then he would have a legitimate excuse to quit. McGonagall might expel him, but… no, Dumbledore wouldn't allow that.

Or would he? Now that Lord Voldemort had been neutralized, the threat to the wizarding world was over. The only loose end, Harry imagined, was the bit of Voldemort still hung around his neck, the bit that had been in his scar until Doctor Bombay removed it. Maybe they should get rid of it, somehow?

How did you get rid of a bit of someone's soul?

"Harry?" It was Ron, standing just outside his bed curtains. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "What do you want, Ron?"

"Can I come in?"

 _I'd rather you didn't_. But Harry didn't say that. Ron was still his friend — he'd just gotten him a position on the Quidditch team, hadn't he? "Sure, come on in."

The curtain opened and Ron climbed onto the bed. In one hand he held a snoozing Scabbers. Harry pulled himself into a sitting position, crossing his legs, and Ron faced him sitting the same way. "I just wanted to say 'thank you' for getting me on the Quidditch team," Ron said immediately. "I can't believe it's really true!"

Harry managed a smile. "I'm glad you're happy, Ron," he said, sincerely. He pointed at the rat in Ron's hands. "What did Scabbers say when you told him?"

Ron grinned wryly. "I don't think he even woke up," he said, candidly. He looked Harry, his expression growing more serious. "Sorry about Hermione, mate. I'm sure she'll come round soon enough."

"She's _not_ —" Harry caught himself. "I mean, as far as I know we're not to boyfriend and girlfriend yet." Ron nodded agreement. "Really," Harry added, for emphasis.

"I get it," Ron agreed. He was silent for a bit. "Um, what — what d'you think of…er, Lavender Brown?" he asked, very tentatively.

"What do I _think_ of her?" Harry wasn't sure he understood why Ron had asked the question. "She's nice enough, I suppose. A bit silly sometimes…"

"Silly can be fun," Ron mumbled. "I mean, you don't think she's — _ugly_ , do you?"

"Of course not," Harry said. "Why'd you ask — oh. Wait a minute," Harry gave Ron a penetrating stare. He was beginning to work out Ron's intention. "Do you — like her?"

"Yes," Ron finally nodded.

"' _Like_ _her'_ like her?" Harry pressed.

Ron nodded again. "I think so," he said.

Harry cocked his head at Ron curiously. "How do you _not know_ whether you like her or not?" he asked, exasperated.

"You don't know if you like Hermione or not!" Ron pointed out. "It's the same thing!"

"Okay, okay," Harry said. "I _do_ like Hermione," he admitted. "I just don't know if we're ready to go to the boyfriend-girlfriend stage just yet."

"Why not?" Ron wondered.

"Well, we're only eleven," Harry said. "Isn't that a bit young?"

"I don't know," Ron said, shrugging. In his hands Scabbers squeaked sleepily as Ron's movements jostled him. "Sorry, Scabbers. Anyway, Harry, I don't think eleven is too young. Maybe Hermione doesn't either — maybe that's why she's upset that you don't want to be her boyfriend. You know what I mean," Ron added as Harry started to protest.

"You could be right," Harry admitted. "I'll talk to her the first chance I get."

"Good," Ron grinned. "And get her to put in a good word about me to Lavender, will you?" Harry grinned back at him, nodding.

"So, now that we've got _that_ sorted out," Ron said, his tone turning calculating. "When are you going to tell me what happened with you and Hermione this weekend?"

Harry's grin didn't waver, but his heart sank a bit. He still wasn't ready to tell Ron about him being a warlock. Ron wasn't ready yet. But maybe there were a few things he could let him know…

"Nothing happened," he insisted. "At least, not at my cousin's house. But there's something you should know about Professor Quirrell…"

Ron leaned in closer. "Really? What?"

Harry put up his hands and made two quick gestures toward the bed curtains. It looked to Ron like he was just prefacing what he was about to say, but Harry actually put up a privacy ward around his bed so no one outside it could hear what he was about to say. "Quirrell was really—Voldemort."

Ron's jaw dropped. "What?!" he exclaimed.

"Keep it down!" Harry warned him, glad he had set up the privacy ward. Unnoticed by either of them, Scabbers eyes had popped open at Harry's mention of Voldemort. He closed them again but continued to listen.

"What do you mean Quirrell was —You-Know-Who?" Ron demanded. "He was killed ten years ago! You were _there_ when it happened, Harry!"

"I don't remember any of it, though," Harry reminded him. "I was only a year old, Ron! But look at this!" He fished out the chain around his neck with the vial of Voldemort's soul inside it. "A few months ago I went to a special doctor, and he took this out of my scar."

Ron looked closely at the vial and the green spark glowing inside it. "What is that?"

"It's a bit of Voldemort's soul," Harry said. "That's how I was able to figure out where he was. It glows more brightly when it gets close to the rest of him."

"And he was _inside_ Quirrell?" Harry nodded. Ron looked impressed. "Merlin's pants! So where's he at now? Did you turn him over to the Ministry?"

"Er, no," Harry said. "Dumbledore took him. I don't know what he did with him, but he's not at the Ministry."

"Whoa," Ron muttered. "I can't believe You-Know-Who's still alive."

"Alive, but unable to hurt anyone," Harry emphasized. "So _don't tell anyone_ , Ron, okay? This is important!"

"Okay," Ron agreed. "I won't tell anybody."

"Not anybody," Harry pressed. "Not your mum, not your dad. No one!"

"Okay," Ron nodded.

"Not even Fred or George," Harry insisted.

Ron looked disappointed. "Aww," he muttered. "But—"

" _Nobody_ ," Harry said flatly. "I really mean it. I'm trusting you, Ron."

"Fine," Ron sighed. "I won't tell _anyone_." He was beginning to sound a little cross. "What d'you want, an Unbreakable Vow?"

"We don't have to go _that_ far," Harry grinned at him, hoping to lighten the mood and get Ron's good mood back.

Ron relented with a small smile. "Good," he said. "Fred and George tried to get me to make one, once. I almost did, too! Fred and I were holding hands and George was standing between us when my dad walked into the room. He went mental, Harry — only time I've seen him get as mad as my mum gets. He threw me out of the room and I ran down to Mum, to tell her Dad was going to kill Fred and George. She ran up the stairs, and all I heard was a lot of shouting after that. But later Fred told me, he reckoned his left buttock would never feel the same again."

Harry grinned in reply, then glanced at his watch. "It's almost six," he said to Ron. "Beating Malfoy in that race worked up an appetite in me. D'you want to go down and get some supper?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Ron replied. They jumped off Harry's bed and Ron went over to his, placing Scabbers on the pillow. "I'll bring you back some bread and cheese," he told his rat, who went over to his pillow and lay down, falling asleep almost immediately. "Let's go, Harry," Ron said, and the two of them left their dorm.

Moments later Scabbers sat up on the pillow, staring at the doorway of the dorm. Had Potter somehow defeated the Dark Lord _again_? It seemed incredible that he was back at all, but if what the boy said was true, he had a bit of the Dark Lord's soul now! This could be useful information, especially if he could discover what Dumbledore had done with Quirrell. Scabbers settled into the pillow, considering his next move.

 **=ooo=**

 _8:45 p.m., that same night  
_ _Slytherin common room  
_ _Draco Malfoy's personal quarters—_

Draco set down his quill, blowing softly on the parchment to dry the ink more quickly, then picked up the letter he had just finished writing.

* * *

 _Dear Father,_

 _I have made some progress in winning Potter's friendship. He and I had a broom race today. I lost, but just barely, and I commended Potter for winning it fairly. His Head of House took him away right after, and it looked like he was going to be expelled, but I heard through my informants that Potter was put on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Obviously a desperate effort by McGonagall to win the Quidditch Cup this year!_

 _Potter seems more receptive to my overtures of friendship than he did a week ago, before he disappeared from school. Still no word on my informants on where he and the mudblood girl went, but I'll have them redouble their efforts. I think within a few more days Potter will trust me enough to become friends. After that I will begin weaning him off the blood traitors and mudbloods he associates with now._

 _Love to you and Mother, please have her send Abraxas back with more treats._

 _Your son,  
_ _Draco_

* * *

Draco examined the letter carefully, judging it the same way his father would, for clarity, conciseness, separation of fact from opinion, and penmanship. Everything was in order.

Draco carefully folded the letter and placed it in a parchment envelope. His eagle owl Abraxas would deliver it to Malfoy Manor by morning. He walked into the common area where Crabbe and Goyle were playing a game of Exploding Snap. "Come on," he ordered them. "I've got a letter to send to my father."

"This late?" Crabbe remarked. "It's almost curfew."

"So what?" Malfoy shot back. "Are you afraid of the boogey man?"

Goyle giggled and Crabbe punched him in the arm.

"Stop messing around and let's get going," Malfoy snapped. Crabbe and Goyle tossed down their cards and followed him out into the hallway. They had made this trip before, as Draco sent letters to his parents at least once a week. The Owlery was on the top floor of the castle, though one of the older students had told Draco of a shortcut accessible from the fifth floor, a passageway in a corridor hidden behind a large picture of a bowl of grapes. To enter, one pressed on the slightly redder grape in the middle of the picture three times. Slipping into the hidden passage, the three Slytherins trudged up circular steps to the entrance.

The Owlery itself was a large, circular room with perches and cubby holes, where students with owls could house their pets, as well as the ones owned by Hogwarts. The room was cold and drafty, owing to the fact that none of the windows had glass in them, to allow the owls free ingress and egress. The floor was covered in straw and strewn with droppings and the skeletons of small animals the owls ate and regurgitated. Draco, his nose wrinkling in disgust, ventured in only far enough to call down his owl from its roost. The owl flew down immediately, landing on a perch near the door that was used to prepare owls for their journeys.

"Here you go, Abraxas," Draco crooned, giving the owl some owl treats for his flight to Wiltshire. There was a small pouch on the owl's leg; Draco slipped the envelope inside. Even though the letter was much bigger than the pouch, it slipped easily all the way inside. "Safe trip to Mother and Father. Off you go!" Abraxas spread his wings, giving a cry, and took off through one of the windows.

"Come on," Draco said to his men, scuffing his feet along the stone floor to remove anything nasty on his soles. They followed the stairs down to the fifth floor exit, then slipped out of the passageway back into the castle proper. They would be back in the Slytherin common room by nine p.m. with no problem.

However, as they rounded a corner where the staircase to the fourth floor was located, they nearly collided with Potter and Weasley. The five boys regarded each other warily. "Malfoy," Harry said at last. "Imagine seeing you up here."

"I see you're not expelled," Draco replied. "Congratulations on staying in school."

"Not only that," Ron couldn't resist adding. "But Harry's on the Quidditch team now! We both are," he added proudly.

"Really?" Draco hid his surprise. After Potter's performance this afternoon, he wasn't surprised McGonagall had drafted him for the Gryffindors — he could fly like the wind itself. But Weasley—? Draco struggled not to make a sarcastic remark. "Congratulations to you, too, Ron."

Ron looked nonplussed. "Uh, thanks," he said, not expecting a compliment. "Are, um, are _you_ trying out for Quidditch, too?"

"I don't have my broom," Draco replied. "Or I would. But we're fielding a pretty good team this year — I think Slytherin will take the Cup again."

"Maybe," Harry shrugged. "I guess we'll see." It felt a bit weird, talking to Malfoy almost like he and his goons Crabbe and Goyle _hadn't_ tried to beat Harry up just a week ago. "Well, I guess we'll see you around."

"Sure," Draco nodded. He stepped out of the way so Harry and Ron could pass by. Crabbe and Goyle didn't move, however; after a moment Draco said, "Guys," and nodded his head to indicate they should move.

"Oh. Yeah," Crabbe said, and he and Goyle stepped aside.

"Thanks," Harry said, looking at them, and he and Ron went on down the corridor. They looked back a few times, as if trying to understand what had happened just then.

Potter and Weasley turned another corner and passed out of sight. "Let's go," Draco said. "It's almost nine." They hurried down the steps to the fourth floor, back toward the safety of the dungeons and their common room.

 **=ooo=**

"What do you think they were doing up here?" Ron asked Harry as they climbed the steps to the sixth floor.

"No idea," Harry shrugged. "Maybe they have a class up here somewhere."

"There aren't any classes this late, Harry," Ron pointed out.

"Like I said, I don't know, Ron," Harry repeated. He was cutting things a little fine tonight — it was nearly nine p.m., time for his evening lessons to begin.

"Are you sure you can't stay up a little later tonight?" Ron asked as they gave the password to the Fat Lady and entered the common room. "Just one time?"  
"Sorry, Ron," Harry said, making a quick scan of the common area. He didn't see Hermione. She hadn't come down for dinner, and Harry and Ron had loitered outside the Library until it was close to nine, her other favorite place. "I promised my cousin I'd get enough rest every night so I wouldn't be sleepy the next day."

"If you say so," Ron shrugged, a little petulantly. "I don't see what the big deal is."

"Don't you do what your mum asks you to?" Harry asked, going up the staircase to his dorm.

"Mostly," Ron said. "If I know what's good for me," he added, one of his mother's favorite warnings, to him and all her sons over the years. He followed Harry into their dorm. Harry headed directly for his bed.

"See you tomorrow morning, Ron," Harry said, climbing into his bed and pulling the curtains closed. He hadn't even taken off his shoes.

Ron went over to his bed and sat on the edge, slipping off his shoes and socks. He glanced at his pillow; Scabbers was right where he'd left him, still sleeping. Ron leaned over to stare at his sleeping rat. "Must be nice to be able to sleep all day, eat whenever you want, and not have to do homework all the time." Scabbers stretched in his sleep.

"That reminds me," Ron said, taking a roll and a lump of cheese out of his pocket. He picked up a bowl off the floor and dropped the bread and cheese in it, then set it just under the bed. "There's your dinner," he told the sleeping rat, then opened a drawer on his bedside table, took out the pyjamas for that night, and padded into the bathroom. He had roughly a half-hour before Dean and Seamus showed up — despite the nine p.m. curfew, they rarely returned to the dorm before 9:30.

A few seconds after the bathroom door closed, Scabbers raised his head, looking around the room. None of the other boys were present. He slipped off Ron's bed, starting toward where Harry was sleeping, but stopped and went back to the supper bowl for a few quick mouthfuls of cheese and bread. No use being hungry when there was food present!

Scabbers scurried across the room to Harry's bed, then slipped under the curtains and climbed up the bed covers to where Harry was sleeping. He was already under the covers, in his pyjamas, his breathing soft and regular. It was strange, but whenever Scabbers came over during the night he always found Potter in a death-like sleep; the boy never moved once while Scabbers prowled around his bed, looking for any clues about the Dark Lord. He checked around Potter's neck, hoping to get a closer look at that vial he mentioned, but it wasn't there now. Where could he have hidden it? He felt around beneath the pillow, but could feel nothing but bedsheet and pillowcase. It didn't make any sense.

He'd long ago found the suitcase under the bed, but it was always locked and no amount of gnawing had made even the smallest hole in the thing! Scabbers had concluded there was a spell on it to keep it from being damaged in any way. He wished he could chance turning human so he could open it, but couldn't risk setting off alarms. Dumbledore was bound to have spells that would inform him if someone with a Dark Mark was inside the castle.

He scurried back to Ron's bed, disappointed but not daunted. He would keep searching and listening for clues about the Dark Lord. Now that he knew he was back, there _had_ to be some way he could curry favor with him again. Rescuing him from Dumbledore's clutches would likely be a very good start.

 **=ooo=**

Just before nine, Harry climbed into his bed, pulled the bed curtains closed, and stretched out on his bed, his eyes closed. At exactly nine, as usual, he felt a shift in his surroundings.

Opening his eyes, he found himself in the classroom section of the Room of Requirement, the special area Uncle Arthur had appropriated for his nighttime classes. Harry sat up at his desk, expecting to see Arthur and Aretha standing in front of him. To his surprise, only Uncle Arthur was there, slumped over the desk, looking absolutely miserable.

"Uncle Arthur?" he said, tentatively. "Is something wrong?"

"Is something wrong?" Arthur repeated morosely. "He asks if something's wrong. Only the end of my world, my life, my happiness, Harry!" He sat up, looking at Harry with haunted eyes. "She left me. Again."

"Aretha left?" Harry said, surprised. "Why?"

"Why?" Arthur shrugged. "Why does the black widow kill its mate? Why do they say breaking up is hard to do, when people do it all the time? Why are there 50 ways to leave your lover?"

"Wow," Harry said. It finally hit him that Arthur was serious. "I'm sorry Aretha left, Arthur. I, um, didn't know things were that serious between you two."

Arthur looked up at Harry. "You don't know how lucky you are, kiddo. You won't have to worry about women for a long time — at least, not like a Casanova like me does," he added, matter-of-factly.

Harry smiled wryly. Oh, if Arthur only knew! He'd been thinking about asking for some advice about Hermione, but maybe he ought to hold off on that a bit. "You know, if you want to skip the lessons tonight, Uncle Arthur, I can go —" he stopped, feeling around his neck.

Arthur noticed what he was doing. "What's up, Harry?" he asked.

"Someone's feeling around my bed double's neck," Harry said. The enchantment that brought him here every week night left a "bed double" in his place — a double of Harry's body, dressed in pyjamas, that mimicked his body in repose. Anyone touching it would transmit an analogous signal to the real Harry, alerting him to their presence. He leaned back for a moment and closed his eyes, detecting who it was.

"It's just Ron's rat, Scabbers, again," he said a moment later. "I think he's looking for something to eat. Ron may have forgotten to give him his food." Harry sometimes had to remind Ron to feed his own rat, but he'd been in a hurry tonight and forgot. "It's no big deal. Anyway," he continued. "If you want to be alone tonight, we can skip the lessons."

"No, no," Arthur said, sitting up and composing himself. "I made Sammy and Tabitha a promise, and I intend to keep it, Aretha or no Aretha." He hid a sniffle. "Alright, what shall we study first? History or math?"

"How about—"

"Oh, what's the use?" Arthur suddenly broke down, putting his face in his hands and sobbing. "I'm finished, Harry! I don't know what I'm going to do without her! I don't think I can go on? What will I do with myself for the rest of my life?"

Harry thought for a few seconds. "Want to go over to Three Broomsticks and check out some hot witches?" he asked. This wasn't the first time he'd dealt with one of Uncle Arthur's heartbreaks. The man was always going from one girlfriend to the next…

"I thought you'd never ask," Arthur said immediately. He stood and waved his hand in the air. His checkered suit changed into a medieval getup. "How this look?"

Harry shook his head. "It's a little old-fashioned. This _is_ the 20th century, Uncle Arthur."

"Gotcha," Arthur agreed. The medieval clothes changed into bell bottoms, an open-front shirt and platform shoes, with strings of beads around his neck. "How's this look?"

"Great — for the 70s," Harry deadpanned. "For Hogsmeade, though, regular wizard's robes will do fine."

The 70s attire disappeared, replaced with a blue wizard's robe, boots and cloak. "I was just funnin' ya, kid," Arthur laughed. "Are you ready to rumble?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose," Harry nodded. He and Arthur vanished, off to Three Broomsticks, and the Room of Requirement reverted back to whatever it became when no one was inside it.

=ooo=

 **A/N (11/23/2015): A comment on KrisB's review of chapter 10: until very recently Harry has been sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive for 10 years. I doubt they had rats (Petunia would have freaked out), but Harry was used to spiders and bugs in the cupboard with him. I don't think having Ron's pet crawling on his bed would have grossed him out. Scabbers is supposed to be a family pet, after all. We (the readers) may have an "ewww" moment because we know who Scabbers really is. When I was living with my parents my sisters had gerbils, and they would sometimes get out of their room and into mine; every so often I'd wake up with one crawling on me. It wasn't so much an "ewww" moment as a "get back in your cage" moment.**

 **As for other reviews about Harry and Hermione, we'll have to wait and see what develops. In the novels Harry doesn't even seem to think about girls until around year four. He's also been isolated from having friends at all becuase of Dudley and his gang. I think Harry has to work through the idea that having a friend like Hermione is okay, and perhaps it's even okay if they get close in different way than he and Ron are close. Don't forget that Hermione has been a bit isolated herself, though that seems to be more self-inflicted because of her bookworminess. We don't know what her mum and dad told her about boys before she came to Hogwarts; they might have avoided the subject with her altogether, thinking she was too young to notice boys yet. Now that she's crushing on Lockhart, however, it's obvious she has some ideas about the opposite sex.**


	11. The Substitute

.

 **Chapter Eleven**

 **The Substitute**

 _Updated_ 12/5/2015

 **=ooo=**

 _25 September 1991  
_ _Wednesday, 8:15 a.m._

By the fourth week of the term Harry and everyone among the first-year Gryffindors had more or less settled into the school's daily routine. Get up every morning around 7:30 or so, get dressed, and have breakfast. Then it was off to the morning classes, followed by lunch, then the afternoon periods, then dinner; a steady procession of lessons, food, homework and sleep, five days a week.

First-year classes were designed to keep them busy all week — the only free time Harry and the other first-years Gryffindors had was Friday afternoon, sixth period, when no class had been scheduled for them. Mondays was Herbology, Charms, and Potions in the morning, followed by History of Magic and a double Defense Against the Dark Arts class in the afternoon. On Tuesday mornings they had Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall, another Defense class, and Astronomy with Professor Sinistra. That afternoon was Potions and a double Herbology that they shared with the Hufflepuffs.

Today they began with History of Magic, after which came their first morning double class, Charms, which they took with Ravenclaw first-years, then went on to Herbology and a double Transfiguration, again with the ravens. Wednesday also had the added "fun" of a midnight class in Astronomy on the Astronomy Tower, to which they brought their telescopes, setting them up to observe the night sky and make diagrams for their practical lessons.

Thursdays began with Charms, followed by Transfiguration and Defense, and in the afternoon they had another Astronomy class, followed by their flying lessons with Madam Hooch. Fridays began with a double Potions, taken with the Slytherins, followed by a final Astronomy for the week, and ending in the afternoon with a double History of Magic, which they shared with Ravenclaw.

As if that wasn't _enough_ for the first-years to do, Harry reflected, he and Ron also now had Quidditch practice! It had made them the talk of their dorm room; Dean was positively green with envy. The Gryffindor team captain, Oliver Wood, was almost fanatical about practice — nearly every afternoon after their last class he would have everyone out on the Quidditch pitch doing broom drills, passing Quaffles (the balls used to score points in the opposing team's goals) back and forth as they flew past and next to each other, and how to block the opposing team's efforts to steal the Quaffle from them. The only person this didn't apply to was the Seeker — Harry, in Gryffindor's case. As the Seeker, Harry had only one job: catch the Golden Snitch, the smallest and most elusive ball used in the game. It was not much bigger than Neville's Remembrall, Harry learned, but was much more difficult to locate, being able to move on its own. Wood released a Snitch at the beginning of practice, telling the other team members they would practice until Harry caught it. That quickly changed, however, because Harry usually caught the Snitch in the first two or three minutes.

Except for the time it cut into getting his homework done, Harry liked Quidditch more than he thought he would. It allowed him flying time, although he had to keep his speed and maneuvering down to what the school brooms were able to perform, to avoid raising suspicion about his flying ability. Uncle Arthur approved of his getting out and exercising, though he thought the game itself was a bit quaint, as he put it. "Plus," he mentioned to Harry shortly after practices began, "we may not want to mention Bludgers to your cousin Sammy just yet."

Bludgers were the third type of ball used in the game: two six-inch diameter iron balls that rocketed around the pitch during games, trying to knock everyone off their broom. Two players on each side, called Beaters, carried heavy wooden bats that they used to knock the Bludgers toward opposing players, causing them to dodge or get hit. As distracting as Harry found them whenever they were used in practice, he was thankful they didn't use the Bludgers that professional Quidditch teams had — those were a whopping _ten_ inches in diameter!

This Wednesday morning Harry, Ron and Neville entered the Great Hall, found seats at the Gryffindor table, and began helping themselves to breakfast. As usual, there was a cluster of girls at the head of the table, nearest the High Table, where they could get a good look at Lockhart if and when he came down for breakfast. Hermione and the other girls had not joined Harry and Ron for breakfast since Lockhart had come to Hogwarts. And Hermione still hadn't quite gotten over Harry matching his and Ron's scores on Lockhart's first-day quiz with hers, which is what she was so upset about. Once Ron learned it had been one of Harry's jokes, he'd laughed and forgotten about it. Hermione hadn't.

"Have your Charms homework done, Harry?" Neville asked him as he started in on a bowl of porridge. Harry nodded, his mouth full of eggs and potatoes. Ron slapped himself on the forehead.

"Hell, I forgot about Charms!" he muttered. "Harry, can I look at your paper?"

"Sure," Harry agreed, going into his book bag and pulling out the sheet with his homework on it. "Just remember to change the words a bit, so Flitwick won't think you copied."

"Got it," Ron nodded, getting out a blank sheet of parchment and a quill. "By the way," he said, holding up the quill. "I _really_ like these self-inking quills, Harry!"

Harry nodded in reply. Continually having to dip quills in ink wells had been too much trouble, so Harry had quietly zapped up a few that inked themselves. It was like using a Muggle ball-point pen — _much_ more convenient! He had offered one to Hermione as well, but she'd turned up her nose at the quill and said, "I prefer to do my homework _without_ cheating, Mr. Potter." How using a self-inking quill was _cheating_ was a mystery to Harry; it was obvious Hermione wasn't going to cut him any slack about Lockhart's quiz. He'd given the quills to Fay, Parvati, Darla and Lavender instead. Lately, however, he'd noticed in classes with a lot of lecture notes that Hermione was using one of the other girls' quills so she could keep up with the professor. It made Harry feel better, knowing she was at least using his quills.

About half-past eight Professor Lockhart sauntered into the Great Hall, strolled up to the High Table and took his now-customary spot: the chair next to Dumbledore on his immediate right, waving and smiling at the hordes of girls who'd commandeered the House tables closest to him; all the girls were waving back at him, giggling among themselves as they argued over who Lockhart had smiled at the longest and who'd had the most interesting conversation with him in class. It was sickening, Harry decided.

Equally sickening was the way Lockhart had taken to _him_. The Defense professor had decided that he and the Boy-Who-Lived were kindred spirits — both on a quest to gain fame and celebrity in the wizarding world, and Lockhart, as the more experienced of the two in that endeavor, felt he should pass his knowledge on to his new protégé. He kept Harry after classes, droning on and on about how to get in the public eye and keep them interested in you, year after year, something Lockhart had been going at for seven years now, with his string of books, public appearances and book signings, which he kept going on about, minute after excruciating minute. Lately Harry had taken to ducking out of class the moment the bell rang, waiting for Ron in the halls.

At the High Table, the teachers appeared as tired of listening to Lockhart as Harry did. A knot of female teachers on the side opposite Lockhart were abusing him mercilessly, complaining about his teaching skills, his wild hyperbole about his proficiency in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and his vanity. On Lockhart's side, Professor Flitwick ate with his eyes on his food, ignoring Lockhart completely.

Hagrid, the half-giant, was at the High Table this morning as well; he didn't always show up for breakfast, but when he did he always had a smile and wave for Harry, though he and Harry didn't even really know one another; he'd only met Hagrid when they got off the Hogwarts Express at Hogsmeade Station. Hagrid seemed to know him quite well, somehow. Harry had meant to ask him about that, but the opportunity had never presented itself. Hagrid wasn't paying much attention to Lockhart, either; he was more interested in his stoat pot pie than in listening to some whipped-up professor boasting about himself.

Snape, on the other hand, kept a baleful eye on Lockhart, watching and listening to everything the man said. Harry imagined he was mentally taking notes on Lockhart, to use against him at some future time. Snape kept shooting glances toward Professor Dumbledore, who sat, seemingly oblivious to Lockhart, in his chair at the center of the High Table as he delicately sampled the few items of food on his plate.

Harry wished there was a way to take Lockhart down a few pegs; if he'd started out as a boorish, vain idiot when he'd come to Hogwarts two weeks ago, he'd only gotten worse. There was a way, Harry knew — he glanced upward. _Uncle Arthur_ , he thought into the ether. _Please come to breakfast and work your magic on Lockhart. Pretty please_?

But if Arthur heard him, he still hadn't come down to the Great Hall for meals since that first week of school. The reason? Harry had no idea, but he suspected Arthur simply wasn't interested in interacting with the Hogwarts staff anymore, no matter how much havoc he might wreak and practical jokes he might play. He was in the Room of Requirement every night like clockwork, giving Harry his lessons, but his heart didn't seem to be in it anymore. Harry was afraid that, if Arthur got too bored with the situation, he might stop tutoring Harry. And if _that_ happened, Samantha and Tabitha would either have to find a replacement or take Harry out of Hogwarts. Leaving the school wasn't in Harry's near-term plans. He liked being here; he'd warmed up to Quidditch, even if the practices were a bit monotonous, and he liked having friends like Ron and Hermione and Neville and the other Gryffindors, even if he and Hermione weren't exactly friendly at the moment. That would surely change before long, wouldn't it? Hermione would get over being mad at him and things would go back to the way they'd been.

Or… maybe he ought to apologize to her for the trick he'd pulled, making his and Ron's quizzes answers hers on Lockhart's stupid quiz his first day here. Maybe…

"What are you looking at?" Ron asked, looking up like Harry was. "The ceiling?"

"Just…thinking," Harry murmured. He looked down at his empty plate.

"Thought maybe you were praying Lockhart would shut his gob," Ron cracked, taking another slice of toast and spreading butter on it. "I swear, the man never seems to inhale — his mouth just goes and goes and goes…"

"At least we don't have his class today," Harry said. "So we won't have to listen to him."

"Except for now," Ron retorted, nodding toward the High Table. "Merlin, I almost wish we had Quirrell back!"

Harry stood, grabbing his book bag. "Come on, let's go," he said.

"It's fifteen minutes before class," Ron pointed out. "Why go early?"

"We can get ahead on our homework," Harry said.

Ron raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you _sure_ you and Hermione aren't together? I think she's given you bookworm-itis or something."

Harry glanced toward the head of the table, where Hermione and the other Gryffindor girls were still chattering about Lockhart. "I'm sure, Ron," he said in a _don't-be-a-smartass_ tone of voice. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ron muttered. He slung his book bag over his shoulder and he and Harry walked out of the Great Hall and up the grand staircase, heading toward classroom 72 on the third floor.

On reaching the second floor they ran into Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, who were heading toward the staircase in the opposite direction. "Good morning, Harry," Malfoy said courteously, with a small bow in Harry's direction.

"Hi, Draco," Harry nodded. The situation between him and Malfoy had improved in the past few weeks, to the point where they were on a first-name basis. "Are you lost again?"

Draco laughed as Crabbe and Goyle flanked Harry and Ron. Harry glanced at them but turned away after a second — Malfoy's minions couldn't help but try to look intimidating. "Not lost, we got on a staircase that shifted from the first to the third floor — we're trying to get to, er, Defense class," Malfoy explained. "Where're you headed this morning?"

"History," Harry said.

Draco made a face. "I hate that class," he complained. "The only thing it's good for is taking a nap. They need to fire Binns and get some hot witch in there to teach it, someone who could spice up the lessons some."

"Sure, like Dumbledore's going to hire someone under 40 to teach that class," Harry retorted. "I'd like to be there when you suggest it to him."

Draco smirked. "Maybe I'll suggest it to my father — he's on the board of governors, you know." He glanced at his watch. "We'll we'd better get to class. Come on, Crabbe, Goyle."

Harry started to step around Malfoy, but that the same time Crabbe started to step toward him, and he and Harry collided. Harry's book bag went flying as Harry fell back on his behind.

"Sorry," Crabbe muttered, reaching out a hand to help Harry up as Malfoy bent over, picking up Harry's book bag.

"Thanks," Harry said, taking Crabbe's hand after a moment. The larger boy pulled Harry easily to his feet.

"Here's your book bag, Harry," Draco said, handing it to him. "See you both later." He, Crabbe and Goyle disappeared down the staircase.

"Still got all your books?" Ron asked suspiciously.

"Come on, Ron, Draco isn't like that anymore," Harry said. He slung the book bag across his back. "Come on, I want to get in a few minutes of study before Binns starts his lecture." It was a proven fact that Binn's wheezy, monotonous voice that could induce drowsiness in most students within ten minutes — five in warm weather.

At the bottom of the first floor staircase, Malfoy stopped and turned to Crabbe. "Good work," he said. "I had more than enough time to slip the book into Potter's book bag." He waited a few seconds, then started up the steps again, saying, "They should be on their way to History by now — come on, we have a long way to go to get to Astronomy."

 **=ooo=**

In classroom 72, Harry and Ron took seats at the back of the room, and Harry began pulling textbooks out of his book bag — _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ , for McGonagall's homework, his star chart for Astronomy, and _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , for Herbology.

He also pulled out another book, a softcover diary with a dark brown leather cover, but no title or other information on it. Harry opened it and flipped through the pages, but there was nothing on them. "What's this?" he asked, holding the book up for Ron to see. "Ron, did you put this in my book bag?"

"Huh-uh," Ron glanced at the book and shook his head. "Where'd you get it?"

"I don't know, it's not one of my books." Harry looked on the back cover; at the bottom a name was stamped, barely readable as the ink had almost faded. Even with his warlock senses Harry could barely make out the name, _Winstanley's Bookstore & Stationeers_, on Vauxhall Road in London. The front cover had the year "1943" embossed on it — presumably the year it had been sold. He opened it to the first page and saw a name — T. M. Riddle — written there in faint, smudged ink.

"Well, whoever 'T. M. Riddle' is," Harry said. "He must've picked up one of my books by mistake, because I've got his diary."

"Really?" Ron leaned over to look at it, interested. "Anything juicy inside?"

"Nope," Harry shrugged, flipping through the pages. "It's empty."

"Too bad." Ron sounded disappointed. "Could have used a laugh about now." He took the book from Harry to look at. "We were in the Library yesterday before dinner," he recalled. "Sitting at a table with third- and fourth-years. You were trying to get Hermione to notice you—"

"That's not why we were there," Harry disagreed. "In Professor Flitwick's reading assignment, there was a section on a book of Charms; I needed to look up a spell from that book for homework. So do you, by the way."

"So did you find the book?" Ron asked.

"No," Harry admitted. "Hermione already had the last copy. That's why we were there — to wait for her to finish using it so I could look through it."

"Yeah, sure," Ron said, pretending to be skeptical of that reason. "If you say so, Harry…"

"Will you stop bugging me about Hermione?" Harry demanded. "Look, I'm going to apologize to her so we can be friends again, okay?"

"Good idea," Ron smiled sweetly. "You don't want your girlfriend to be cross with you now, do you Harry?" He batted his eyes suggestively at Harry.

"Arrgh," Harry groaned, thoroughly irritated. He snatched the diary from Ron. "If _that's_ all you've got to say then do us both a favor and shut it." Harry dropped the diary on the desk in front of him.

"Obviously this belongs to one of those blokes from the table we were sitting at," Ron pointed out. "You should put a notice on the bulletin boards of the other Houses, to see if anyone's lost an old diary."

"I'd like to know why anyone would carry it around in the first place," Harry said, giving the book an annoyed glare. "Who needs a fifty-year old diary?"

The classroom was beginning to fill with other Gryffindors coming into the class. Seamus and Dean wandered in, taking seats in front of Ron and Harry. Dean turned around and quipped, "Ready to get caught up on your sleeping?" He'd made that joke every time since the first day of the class. Harry and Ron smiled obligingly at Dean's stale joke.

The Gilderoy Lockhart Fan Club came in — all five Gryffindor girls — and took seats near each other in the front of the room. It didn't matter where you sat in Binns class; once he started lecturing he simply went on and on, as if reciting lines from memory, ending just as the bell signaling the end of class rang. It was like he had them timed down to the second by now.

Harry started working on his Charms homework, hoping to get the 18 inches of essay Professor Flitwick had assigned done by the time Binns started his mind-numbing lecture. He was staring at the parchment, trying to decide how to word his summary sentence, when a hand reached out and picked up the diary.

Harry looked up. Dean Thomas was holding the diary and looking it over, a smirking smile on his face. "Thinking about starting a diary, Harry?" he asked. "You know, I can get you a _much_ nicer book than this old thing."

"It's not mine," Harry said, holding out his hand for the diary. "It belongs to someone named T. M. Riddle."

Dean began leafing through the book. "Where'd you get it?"

"Probably from some bloke named Riddle, don't you think?" Harry said, exasperated. "He or she's probably some third or fourth-year — Ron and I were in the library yesterday, and I may have accidentally picked it up."

"A likely story," Dean laughed. "More likely you thought there'd be some gossip in here. Sorry to tell you, but nobody named Riddle is going to Hogwarts this year."

"How d'you know _that_?" Ron asked challengingly.

"Because I actually _talk_ to people," Dean retorted. "I know everyone's name up to fifth year, and I'm working on sixth and seventh. Nobody in the first five years, male or female, has a last name of Riddle."

Before Harry could reply, a silvery figure suddenly entered the classroom by walking through the blackboard at the front of the room. Dean dropped the diary on Harry's desk and turned around.

Professor Binns had been very old when he died; he was balding and hunched over, and tended to shuffle when he wasn't floating in the air. His desk at the front of the room was stacked with folders of the notes he had made over the decades of teaching History of Magic, and he seemed to look them over for several seconds, as if reminding himself where he was in his lectures.

"In our last class," Binns began speaking, without giving any indication he was aware there were students in the classroom. His voice sounded as old and faded as the man himself looked. "We finished our discussion of the ancient Greek sorcerers and sorceresses such as Circe, Mopsus the Seer, and Falco Aesalon, the first Animagus. Today we will move on to witches and wizards of the Roman era, the period from about 750 B.C. to approximately 500 A.D., when the last of its…" Binns faltered and stopped lecturing as something quite unusual was happening: one of the students in his class had raised her hand and was waving it back and forth to get his attention. "Er…yes, Miss — um…"

"It's Fay Dunbar, sir," she said, rising to her feet. "I have a question, Professor."

"A question…?" Binns looked confused, as if the idea of someone asking _him_ a question had not occurred to him in a long time. "What…is it?"

The entire class was looking at her now. Even Harry stopped checking his star chart to listen. "Professor," Fay continued. "You said in a previous class that the ancient Greek Herpo the Foul was the first wizard to create a Basilisk."

"Yes…" Binns nodded slowly. A wrinkled, silvery hand reached out to touch a stack of folders, as if to remind him of that lecture.

"Well," Fay went on. "The other day Professor Lockhart was telling us about some of the creatures he's defeated, and he mentioned that when he was here at Hogwarts, he discovered the Chamber of Secrets and defeated the monster that was guarding it. His descriptions of the monster implied it was a Basilisk, according to Hermione." She glanced over at Hermione, who nodded.

"My question is, do you know of any other wizards who have defeated Basilisks in the past?"

Binns looked around the room, seeming to see the others there for the first time. His confused expression turned into a frown. "The Chamber of Secrets does not exist," he said, shaking his silvery head. "It is nothing but a fanciful legend."

"But sir —!" Lavender Brown, next to Fay, stood as well. "Professor Lockhart _told us_ he'd _seen_ the Chamber, that's he's _been_ there! What reason would he have to lie to us?!"

"I'm certain I do not know," Binns replied. The frown began deepening on his wizened, silvery face. "But I deal in historical _fact_ , not fanciful legends and unverifiable tales."

"Sir?" Hermione now raised her hand. "What _do_ you know about the Chamber of Secrets?"

Binns stared for several moments, if trying to remember things he hadn't thought of in a long while. "As I recall, the story goes that Salazar Slytherin build a chamber somewhere inside the castle, a room of which the other founders knew nothing.

"According to the legend," Binns continued. "Slytherin sealed the Chamber so that no one would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber and unleash whatever horror he had sealed within it, using it to purge the school of all who he considered unworthy to study magic."

"But why do you consider _that_ just a legend, Professor?" Hermione asked. "To this day we don't even know exactly when Hogwarts was founded — the most reliable documents put it at around a thousand years ago."

"We know that Hogwarts was built because obviously it is _here_!" Binns snapped. "There are multiple independent attestations for its existence by the time of the Norman invasion in 1066 A.D., though the invaders never made it far enough north to threaten the school itself.

"But as to the claim of the Chamber's existence, it is arrant nonsense," Binns declared. "The school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times in fact, by the most learned witches and wizards of our society, but no such room has ever been discovered. It therefore does not exist — it is merely a tale told to frighten the gullible."

But now Hermione stood as well. "Sir," she said firmly. "In _Hogwarts: A History_ , the author reports that the Chamber is believed to exist somewhere under the school, accessible by means known only to the Heir of Slytherin, and that it contains a monster of some kind that will do only his bidding."

"Bah!" Binns snorted. "Bathilda Bagshot wrote that book — it is filled with guesswork and conjecture, hardly a valid historical tome at all! I would not stake my trust in anything it says!"

"Bathilda Bagshot is considered a very reliable historian, Professor," Hermione pointed out. "The book is a quite thorough history of Hogwarts from the time of its founding up to the early 20th century."

"And I tell you it is rubbish!" Binns retorted, as agitated as anyone had ever seen him. "There is no Chamber, and there is no monster!"

"But Professor Lockhart insists that he _defeated_ the monster!" Fay exclaimed. "He told us he found the Chamber of Secrets, opened it, and defeated the monster singlehandedly!"

"Wouldn't that mean that _Lockhart_ was the Heir of Slytherin?" Harry pointed out from the back of the room. Everyone turned to look at him.

"That's right!" Seamus, sitting next to Dean, agreed. "If the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin's true heir, then nobody else would be able to do it, would they?"

"Professor Lockhart had a special password!" Fay exclaimed. "He — he said learned the password from the Defense professor that year!"

"What year was that?" Professor Binns asked, suspiciously.

"Um…" Fay shook her head. "He — he said it was in the spring of his last year in school."

"That would have been in 1982," Hermione said. "Professor Lockhart started at Hogwarts in 1975."

"That would have been Professor Podmore," Binns recalled. "He died in the summer of 1982, before he could return for a second year as Defense professor, so we cannot ask him to verify Professor Lockhart's story."

"But we can ask Professor Lockhart _directly_!" Fay cried, upset that Binns doubted Lockhart. "If the monster is defeated, he has no reason not to take us down to the Chamber and prove that it exists!"

Harry could think of a very good reason why Lockhart wouldn't do that —because he had no idea where the Chamber of Secrets was, and would avoid it like the dragon pox if he did! "Maybe we should go ask him," he suggested.

Fay whirled on him. "You don't believe him either, do you?! For some reason, Harry Potter, you seem to _hate_ Professor Lockhart, though he's been nothing but nice to you since he got here! Shame on you!"

"He's hardly been 'nice' to me," Harry retorted. "He thinks I'm as greedy and eager for notoriety as he is, because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived!"

"There _are_ a lot of books and magazines about you," Lavender pointed out. "My father has books about you that came out the same year your parents were killed. Are you trying to say you don't know about them?"

Harry shook his head. "I had no idea such things existed. This is the first I've heard of them."

"I don't believe you," Fay snapped. "You or your guardians had to give permission for those books and stories to be published about you!"

"Oh, _that's_ a joke!" Harry retorted hotly. "My aunt and uncle _hated_ magic! They never told me _anything_ about my parents or even the truth about how they died! They wouldn't have wanted those books to be written, it would have reminded them that I was a —!" Harry stopped, realizing he was saying too much about his past. Everyone in the room was looking at him strangely. "Anyway, I don't know anything about those books!"

"Alright, that will do!" Professor Binns said sharply. "The Chamber of Secrets is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I should not have even mentioned such a foolish story to any of you! We will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact!"

"But—" Hermione tried to argue, but Binns had returned to his lecture, and ignored Hermione's raised hand for the rest of the period. Harry shook his head, wishing he hadn't said anything about Vernon and Petunia Dursley, and concentrated on his homework, feeling Ron's eyes on him as he worked. He was probably going to be full of questions about that part of his life, a part Harry didn't want to remember anymore.

When the bell rang at the class, Professor Binns turned and floated out of the room through the blackboard, and the Gryffindors began gathering up their books to their next class, double Charms with the Ravenclaws. Harry put his books back in his book bag, except for the diary; on the way to lunch, he decided, he could stop and leave a note in the Library that he'd found it, then wait and see if anyone claimed it.

Harry walked out of the classroom with Ron hot on his heels, eager to start asking questions about his aunt and uncle, when they ran into Hermione. "Oh, hi," Harry said, stopping short.

"Hi," Hermione said. She was silent for a long moment. Then, "I'm sorry about your problems with your aunt and uncle, Harry. I didn't know you hadn't always lived with your cousin Samantha."

"I was going to ask him about that," Ron said, stepping around from behind Harry. "He mentioned living with some other relatives, but I didn't know they gave him such a hard time."

"If…you ever want to talk about them with me," Hermione began.

"Or me," Ron added.

"Just, just feel free to, um, do that," Hermione finished.

"Okay," Harry said, trying to figure out what was happening. Two weeks of nothing from Hermione, and now she wanted to be his friend again? "I will," he added. _When I'm good and ready, which won't be for a while_!

"The real reason I waited for you," Hermione continued, looking even more uncomfortable now. "I — I want to ask Professor Lockhart about his Basilisk story."

"I thought Lockhart didn't say what the monster was," Ron remarked. "How d'you know it was a Basilisk?"

"The way he described it," Hermione said. "He said it was huge and horribly green, and that it could freeze you in a moment if you looked directly at it. I checked and that description's consistent with a Basilisk." She looked at Harry. "What you said in class makes sense — if he _really_ killed the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, he should be able to prove it by taking someone down to see it."

"Like you, you mean?" Harry asked, wondering if she had some other motivation for being alone with Lockhart.

"No — I mean someone — um, like Professor Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall," Hermione explained. "Someone who can protect themselves if it turns out there's something dangerous in the Chamber of Secrets — assuming it even exists."

"What if it doesn't?" Ron piped up. "Is _that_ going to convince you Lockhart is full of —" Hermione stared at him "— full of beans," Ron finished.

"I don't know — probably," she admitted. "Those books of his were all so…so amazing," she went on. "I saw them in Flourish and Blotts when Professor McGonagall took me there to get my school books. I bought them all at once, even though Professor McGonagall suggested I start with just one or two. Now I don't know _what_ to think."

"You should probably go talk to Lockhart, then," Harry suggested.

Hermione nodded shakily. "Yes," she finally agreed. "Will — will you go with me?" she blurted out.

"What?" Harry was surprised. "Why me?"

"I think he'll be more truthful if you're there," Hermione suggested. "If you know what I mean," she added, giving him a knowing look.

"Oh," Harry said, wondering what she was getting at. Did she really expect him to use his witchcraft on Lockhart to make him tell the truth? Because, actually, he was good with that. "Okay," he agreed.

"Oi, what about _me_?" Ron asked indignantly. "I want to go, too!"

"Fine, Ron," Harry said, mildly irritated Ron had to get in on proving Lockhart was a phony. "When do you want to do this?" he asked Hermione.

"Well, we have Charms class in about —" she reached down and pulled Harry's wrist up so she could see his watch. "—about four minutes. We can go right after that."

"Alright," Harry agreed. "We'd better get going, then, if we're going to get to Flitwick's class in time." The three of them hurried off toward the Charms classroom.

 **=ooo=**

 _11:12 a.m.  
_ _Headmaster's Office—_

Dumbledore heard the soft grinding sound that accompanied the walls guarding the spiral staircase to his office moving aside to grant someone access. He'd been concentrating on his work and hadn't paid any attention to the ward that informed him when his guardian stepped aside to allow access.

Who could it be at this time of day? Minerva had already brought him the morning owls, including his daily missive from Cornelius, who still hadn't completely settled into his role as Minister of Magic.

There was a rapping at the oaken door of his office, and Dumbledore knew instantly who it was: no one but Professor Snape could have a knock that sour. "Come in Severus," he called, and the door opened of its own accord to admit the Potions Master. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

Snape strode into the office, hands clasped behind his back, his face a sallow mask of determination. "Headmaster," he nodded in respect as he stopped before the ancient wizard's desk. "Something must be done."

"About what, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, allowing a twinkle of amusement to show in his blue eyes. Snape always spoke as if his words were of utmost importance. "Are the dungeons becoming too drafty again? Was the porridge too runny this morning? I thought it was a bit thin, myself —"

"Something must be done about Lockhart," Snape interrupted.

"Really?" the Headmaster sat back in his chair and regarded the Slytherin Head of House with some interest. "When did you come to that conclusion?"

" _Why_ did you even hire him?" Snape demanded. "The man is a complete fraud, an utter buffoon masquerading as a master of Defense Against the Dark Arts — he knows no more about them than a baby knows how to wipe its arse."

"Please, Severus — you needn't be so coarse in your descriptions," Dumbledore insisted. "I knew Gilderoy was unfit for the job before I hired him."

Snape swelled with indignation. "You _knew_ —? Then why hire him in the first place?! Even by the admittedly low standards of Defense professors we've had here in the past decade, the man is worthless!"

Dumbledore ignored the implied insult to his administrative skills. "I have been studying the career of Gilderoy Lockhart for some time, Severus. When he attended Hogwarts in the 1970s and 80s, he was a brilliant student, quite ambitions, but also lazy, spoiled and vain. I fear his mother may have overindulged his desires in his youth, and gave him an inflated view of his own abilities. When he left in 1982 he had achieved ten O.W.L.s but only one N.E.W.T., in Defense Against the Dark Arts, an Outstanding, which did not correlate well, given his poor performance in his other N.E.W.T. classes."

"I recall," Snape agreed, finally taking a seat in front of the desk. "He had an Outstanding for his Potions O.W.L., but I found his work quite substandard in my N.E.W.T. classes, and dismissed him after his sixth year. In fact, Lockhart was dismissed from all of his N.E.W.T. classes except Defense, was he not?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I questioned the Defense professor for that year, Professor Podmore, about Gilderoy's grade shortly before he died, but poor Stanley was adamant that Gilderoy's work was top-notch and deserving of high marks, although he could not produce a single piece or homework or test results to back up that claim. I began to suspect that some mischief was afoot.

"Professor Podmore was gracious enough to give me his memories of his private meetings with Gilderoy, and I studied them at length. For the most part, Stanley was critical yet tolerant of Lockhart's lessons — he apparently was quite fond of the young man, and tended to ignore his lack of knowledge or preparedness in his studies. Quite unlike the man in regard to his other students, whom he graded rather sparingly, I must say.

"Yet I noticed a definite change in his final meeting with Gilderoy," Dumbledore continued. "In their final exchange, Stanley was quite effusive in his praise, and confided to young Gilderoy that he would be getting an Outstanding mark for all of the hard work and dedication he had shown in his lessons. An abrupt change from his previous feelings on the matter. I also noticed, in Professor Podmore's grade book for that year, the page containing Gilderoy's marks for Defense was missing," the Headmaster concluded.

"You suspect Lockhart was tampering with Podmore's memories?" Snape surmised. Dumbledore nodded. "I would have as well," Snape concurred. "Have you confronted Lockhart with this yet?"

"Not yet," Dumbledore replied. "I feel that things are much worse than him simply modifying Professor Podmore's memories. Much of what is written in Gilderoy's books are incompatible with his poor N.E.W.T. performance, especially given his relatively high O.W.L. marks. I have discussed this individually with the other Hogwarts staff who taught him — they are certain Gilderoy had no opportunity to alter their memories, but some of them have noted that his grades in their classes took a sudden upturn in his fifth year, before his O.W.L.s. Also, while his O.W.L. examinations all received highest marks, his practical scores were much less indicative of a well-educated student. That is why his final O.W.L. scores varied from Outstanding to Exceeds."

"I see your point," Snape remarked. "You believe he may have gotten other students to help him with his tests."

"Or they were induced to help him in some way," Dumbledore suggested. "I know of one other example, post-Hogwarts, that I might attribute to Lockhart. Through the ICF, the Armenian Minister of Magic asked me to look into the case of one Zohrab Zildjian, an Armenian wizard living in the remote village of Wagga Wagga. The minister told me that several villagers clearly remember Zohrab saving their village in 1983 from a pack of werewolves, yet the man insists he has no memory of the event. However, he does have a clear memory of meeting Gilderoy Lockhart and entertaining him at his home for several days in August of 1984. The wizard noted, incidentally, that Gilderoy was a wonderful guest and asked for nothing from his host at all, leaving him with a signed copy of his book, _Marauding With Monsters_. The next year, when Gilderoy's book _Wanderings With Werewolves_ was published, it included a story about Gilderoy saving the village from a pack of werewolves."

"An unlikely coincidence," Snape muttered.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. "It appears that Gilderoy has mastered at least _one_ spell, that being the Memory Charm."

"Then why bring him here?" Snape asked, his irritation evident. "Why not turn over your evidence to the Ministry and let them deal with him?"

"For two very important reasons." Dumbledore held up a long finger. "First, I wished to isolate Gilderoy from the wizarding world — he will be at Hogwarts until next June, keeping him away from anyone he might wish to Obliviate in his quest for more material for his books."

"Not unreasonable," Snape agreed. "But the man is currently writing his autobiography — he never tires of regaling the staff with the latest chapter he's written. At this point I would consider it a boon were he to Obliviate _me_."

"Point taken," Dumbledore agreed with an amused nod. "The second reason is that I wish to expose Gilderoy's perfidy to the wizarding world at large, and put an end to the unseemly hero-worship that seems to have sprung up around him in the wizarding community, especially among many of the young female students. All of the purported exploits in his books should have left him with extensive knowledge of Defense magic and protections against Dark creatures, yet no student in _any_ year has yet to learn a single thing from Gilderoy. Once he realizes he is not a good teacher, I expect he will come to see himself as more of a hindrance than a help to wizard-kind."

"I think you underestimate the depths of Lockhart's delusion, Headmaster," Snape disagreed. "The man cannot conceive of himself as a failure. He will certainly claim that the students were simply unable to comprehend his brilliance. As you may know," Snape added, deadpan. "That is _my_ problem with them."

"Why, Severus," Dumbledore smiled, delighted. "Have you just made a _joke_?"

"I prefer to think of it as an unfortunate aspect of my tenure here at Hogwarts," Snape retorted. He regarded Dumbledore with a pinched expression. "I suppose this means we shall just have to deal with him for the next nine months. You do realize, Dumbledore," he pointed out. "This means that all the students in school this year are being cheated out of a year's education in Defense."

Dumbledore sighed. "Ah, well, as Julius Caesar said after crossing the Rubicon, ' _alea iacta est_ ' — the die has been cast. I am sure our more inventive students will find ways to increase their Defense knowledge on their own."

Snape snorted. "You think more highly of them than I do, then." He stood, regarding the Headmaster with a brooding look. "I suppose the rest of us will just have to learn to deal with Lockhart as best we can," he muttered in a caustic tone.

"One thing I do think you should do, Severus," Dumbledore said, as Snape turned to leave. "If you would, please consider making some Memory Restoration Potion, just in case Gilderoy tries to Memory Charm any of the faculty or students during his time with us."

"You do realize, Headmaster," Snape retorted thinly. "That potion requires almost two months of preparation time." The potion was a curative for Memory Charmed individuals. Dumbledore asking him to prepare some was effectively admitting he expected Lockhart to Obliviate people during his time here.

"I am aware, Severus," Dumbledore nodded. "Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst."

Snape, rolling his eyes, departed the Headmaster's office wondering which was worse — dealing with an overpowered jokester like Arthur, or a self-important moron like Lockhart. _Or_ a Headmaster that allowed both of them into the school.

 **=ooo=**

When Charms class finished Harry, Ron and Hermione decided to drop off their book bags in their rooms, then find Lockhart, who always showed up for lunch several minutes into the period, making a grand entrance for his adoring fans.

As they approached the portrait of the Fat Lady, her picture suddenly swung outward and a group of Gryffindor students emerged, including Fred, George, and their friend Lee Jordan. The group swept by them, waving as they passed, but Fred stopped and put an arm around Ron's shoulder. "You're heading in the wrong direction, ickle Ronnie — the food's in that direction." He pointed in the direction they'd come from.

"I know that," Ron said, pushing Fred's arm off him. "We're —"

"— just dropping off our book bags before lunch," Harry cut in, before Ron could spill the beans about their plans to confront Lockhart.

"Hurry up, then," Fred said, jogging to catch up with Lee and George.

"What's the password?" the Fat Lady asked. "You can't go in without the password —"

"You're already open!" Ron snapped at her. He'd taken hold of the frame as it started to swing back.

"That's no reason not to give the password!" the Fat Lady shrilled. They ignored her entreaties to give the password as they climbed inside and looked around. The common room was empty. Harry glanced at his watch. It was 12:05 — Lockhart usually made his entrances around 12:15, so they had less than 10 minutes to get to his office and confront him.

"Be back in a minute," Harry said to Hermione, then he and Ron ran up the staircase to their dorm room and dropped off their book bags. Predictably, Ron's fat gray rat, Scabbers, was still asleep on Ron's pillow.

"Actually, I'm kind of jealous," Ron joked. "I wish I could sleep that much!"

As they were about to leave Ron suddenly snapped his fingers. "Hey, I just thought of this," he said to Harry. "Why don't we show Lockhart that diary of yours?"

"Why?" Harry asked curiously. "It's just a manky old book."

"Right, but what if we _tell him_ we think it's a Dark object?" Ron suggested, slyly. "He'll probably tell us there's curse of some kind on it, and want to study it more closely. Then we can tell Professor McGonagall or Flitwick about it, and they'll prove Lockhart's wrong. Maybe between that and him not taking us to the Chamber of Secrets we'll be able to show he's a fraud."

"I like it," Harry grinned. He went over to his bed and pulled the diary from his book bag. "Let's get Hermione and go see him." He stopped at the door. "But, don't tell Hermione about the diary, okay? We'll let her ask about the Chamber, and when he refuses to take us to see it — because you know he _will_ ," Harry said matter-of-factly, and Ron nodded agreement. "Then we'll ask him about this book."

"Got it," Ron agreed, and they hurried down to the common room, where they found Hermione sitting in front of the room's flickering fireplace, looking fretful. "What's wrong _now_?" Ron asked, exasperated, as he saw her expression.

"I don't know about this," Hermione said worriedly. "I don't want Professor Lockhart to think we don't believe him…"

"But we _don't_ believe him," Harry pointed out.

"Well, that's not a good attitude to go see him with!" she exploded. "Haven't you ever heard of giving someone the benefit of the doubt?"

Harry sat down on the sofa opposite her, dropping the diary on a cushion next to him. "Of course I have," he retorted. "But I gave up on _that_ with Lockhart after about the third word that came out of his mouth!"

Hermione covered her face. "This isn't going to work," she moaned. "I don't know _why_ I thought you would approach this meeting with Professor Lockhart objectively, Harry!"

Harry sat back, stung. It was true, he didn't think there was any chance at all that Lockhart was the kind of wizard Hermione hoped he was. But if they were going to get the man to open up, to show his true colors to them, they had to go to him at least appearing to have an open mind. "Alright, then," he muttered. "You're right — we should at least give him the benefit of the doubt." He looked at Ron. "Right?"

"Right," Ron nodded, sensing Harry's intention to placate Hermione. "Come on, Hermione, let's go see what Lockhart—"

" _Professor_ Lockhart," Hermione insisted.

"Alright, _Professor_ Lockhart, then!" Ron huffed. "Can we just go?"

Hermione nodded and stood up to go with them. But before any of them could move, there was a loud _WHOOPMH_ and the fire in the fireplace suddenly went out.

Ron jumped, startled. "What was that?" he squeaked.

"Fire went out," Harry said, staring into the fireplace. "That was weird."

Hermione was staring, too. "Why would it do that?"

"I dunno," Harry shrugged. "But it's not important right now, let's —"

There was a loud THUMP and a cloud of black smoke billowed out of the fireplace, making them all cough and their eyes water.

Harry was waving the black smoke out of his face when he heard a familiar voice. "Oh dear, oh-oh dear, I've missed again!"

Harry snapped his fingers, making the smoke dissipate rapidly. Sitting on the hearth of the fireplace was an older, red-haired woman dressed in a coat with a fur-lined collar, a hat with a large flower on it that was tipped to one side, with a carpetbag and umbrella in one hand. Her face was covered with soot and she looked rather disheveled. "Aunt Clara!" he exclaimed, stepping forward to take her hand. "Here, let me help you!"

"Oh hello, Harry," the woman said, pushing her flowered hat so it was on top of her head again. "Thank — thank you, dear," she added as Harry helped her to her feet. "My, it's good to see you again!" she said, giving Harry a kiss on the cheek that left a sooty lip-print on his cheek.

"It's good to see you too, Aunt Clara!" Harry agreed, beaming at her. After a moment he realized Ron and Hermione were staring at them, their mouths open in surprise. "Ron, Hermione, this is my Aunt Clara," he said, introducing them. "Aunt Clara, this is Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, two of my best friends here in school."

"Very nice to meet you," Clara said to them, though she appeared distracted as she looked around the room. "But-but, I thought Arthur would be here, too."

"He's probably, um —" Harry stopped, realizing he didn't actually know where Arthur's quarters were at — he was always in the Room of Requirement when Harry popped in there each night. "Er, well, I'm sure we can find him," he said instead.

"Did you just Floo in, um, Mrs., er—?" Hermione hesitated.

"Just Aunt Clara, dear," Clara said, smiling at her. "Yes, I did." She rubbed one of her arms. "And boy, are my arms sore now!"

Ron shook his head, trying to figure out if she was joking or not. Harry forced a laugh. "That's funny, Aunt Clara," he said, covering for her.

Clara turned to him, confused. "What's funny, dear?"

Harry pointed to the sofa he'd gotten up from. "Why don't you sit down for a minute, Aunt Clara?" he said to her. "Ron, would you get her bag?"

"Sure." Ron took the bag as Clara sat down, then nearly dropped it. "Blimey! That's heavy!" he said, surprised. "What's in here?" He set it down on the floor in front of her.

"Oh, that's my doorknob collection," Clara said brightly, reaching down and opening the bag. She took out a very old knob fashioned from gold and engraved in ornate scrollwork. "This one," she said proudly, "came from the castle of King Louis the Fourteenth, in Versailles."

"Whoa," Ron remarked. "How'd you get it?"

"Why," Clara beamed, "Louis gave it to me himself."

"He _did_?" Ron's eyes were wide.

"Aunt Clara —" Harry said, trying to stop her from saying something so outlandish even Ron wouldn't believe it. "Maybe we better go find Uncle Arthur."

Clara looked a bit disappointed; she enjoyed talking about her doorknobs so much! But— "Well, I-I suppose we can, Harry," she said, putting the doorknob back in her bag.

"Good," Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He and Clara stood up. "Hermione, I'm going to take Aunt Clara to find Uncle Arthur. Maybe we can go see Professor Lockhart some other time." Hermione nodded agreement.

As Harry and Clara walked toward the portal, Hermione reached over and picked up the diary from the sofa where Harry had dropped it. "Harry, what's this book?" she asked, holding it up.

"Oh." Harry stopped. "It's some diary I found with my other books," he said. "I was going to put up a notice in the Library to see whose it is." He started to walk back to get it.

"Can I look at it?" Hermione asked.

"There's nothing in it," Ron and Harry said at the same time. Hermione instantly became more interested in the diary.

Hermione flipped the pages. "Curious," she murmured. "If you like, I'll post a notice in the Library for you, Harry," she offered.

"Um," Harry dithered, not sure about leaving the book with her. But he still had to get Aunt Clara out of there. "Okay," he finally nodded. "Thanks." He and Aunt Clara exited through the portrait hole.

Hermione looked back at Ron. "So where'd this _really_ come from?" she asked him cagily.

"Just what Harry said," Ron replied, shrugging. "It was in with his other books in History of Magic. We figure he accidentally picked it up in the Library last night."

"Strange that it doesn't have any writing in it at all," Hermione pondered, flipping slowly through the pages. "Just the name, T.M. Riddle, written on the first page."

"We were going to ask Lockhart about it — oops," Ron said, wincing as he realized he'd said too much.

But Hermione nodded. "That's a good idea, Ron!" she smiled. "I think I'll see if I can catch him right now!" She stood up and exited the common room, leaving Ron sitting alone wondering how mad Harry was going to be at him.

After a few seconds he shrugged; he and Harry were best mates, after all! "Well, time for lunch, anyway," he told himself, and went to get something to eat.

 **=ooo=**

When Hermione arrived at Lockhart's office she found him seated at his desk, an enormous peacock quill in hand writing his autograph on a photograph of himself sitting on a broom in old-fashioned riding pants and a Ravenclaw Quidditch top. As usual, the Lockhart in the picture was waving and flashing a brilliant smile. "Ah, Miss Granger!" Lockhart beamed as she entered. "Just finishing up a few autographs for my adoring fans." He held up the photograph he'd just signed. The image of Lockhart in the picture gave her a toothy smile and a thumb's up. "Good old Gladys Gudgeon," he said, turning the photograph so he could admire himself. "Bless her, she's such a huge fan of mine." He turned back to Hermione. "So, what may I do for you, before we make our way down to the Great Hall for a sumptuous luncheon?"

This was Hermione's first one-on-one meeting with Professor Lockhart, and she was understandably nervous. "Please, Professor," she said, holding out the diary. "I wonder if you might have —"

"Time for an autograph?" Lockhart said, taking the book from her. "Of course, my dear, of course! I'm always happy to sign a book for my fans." When he looked at the book, however, a frown creased his features. "Hmmm, this doesn't seem to be one of _my_ books."

"No, sir," Hermione said. "It's Harry's. That is, he and my friend Ron were going to show it to you."

"For me to sign?" Lockhart grinned. Before Hermione could say anything else he picked up his peacock quill, flipped open the book and signed his name with a grand flourish. "There we are, a signature fit for a king — or at least, the Boy-Who-Lived!" he chuckled. He set the quill down and picked up the book, beginning to close it. He stopped as his name faded from the page. "What?" Lockhart blurted indignantly. How dare this book erase his name! Of all the nerve —!

Lockhart froze as words suddenly began forming on the page where he'd written his name. " _Hello, Gilderoy Lockhart_ ," the words read. " _My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary_?"

Hermione couldn't see the page from where she was standing. "What is it, Professor? Did you find something interesting in the diary?"

"Ah. Well. Er, no." Lockhart quickly closed the book so she couldn't see the words that had appeared. "An interesting book, my dear," he said to her, using his best disarming smile. "Why don't you let me study it a bit and I'll determine if there's anything unusual about it?" Before she could protest he slipped the book into a drawer in his desk and locked it.

"Yes, sir," Hermione said, watching helplessly as Harry's book disappeared. How was she going to explain this to Harry and Ron?

Well, why should she, she reminded herself. They were going to show the book to the professor _anyway_ , Ron had said! So she'd actually done Harry a favor!

"Um, thank you, sir," she nodded. "I'll let Harry know you've got it."

Lockhart stared at her a long moment, then smiled. "Of course, my dear, of course," he said, taking out his wand.

Hermione found herself walking down the grand staircase into the entrance hall. She must've been deep in thought up until then, because she didn't exactly recall what she'd been doing for the past few minutes. The last she remembered she'd been in the Gryffindor common room with Harry and Ron, and had met Harry's Aunt Clara. But after that…

Well, it would come to her eventually. She possessed an excellent memory, after all! She went into the Great Hall to have lunch.

 **=ooo=**

Harry and Aunt Clara walked up to the seventh floor corridor where the entrance to the Room of Requirement was located. Clara was looking around interestedly as they walked, waving to portraits they passed and admiring wall tapestries. And _especially_ the various door knobs they encountered, making comments like, "Look at that, Harry! An 1883 Pittson double cylinder! I haven't seen one of those in ages!" Or, "That door has a 1743 MacDougall Westminster latch! Very rare, you know, oh my!" She stopped to admire the latch, running a hand tenderly over it, then glanced around furtively. "I wonder if anyone would notice if I—"

"Probably not a good idea, Aunt Clara," Harry cautioned. Samantha had warned him that her aunt wasn't above taking a doorknob she really admired.

"I-I suppose not," Clara mumbled, disappointed. She looked around again. "Where — where are we going, now?"

"To find Uncle Arthur," Harry reminded her. He wondered again why she wanted to see him. Clara was a bit absent-minded, sometimes, but Samantha had said she'd been even worse for a while, many years ago. "He should be in the room we use for a classroom."

"Oh," Clara nodded. "Good, good," she said.

"Why did you want to see him?" Harry asked.

"Well, I — um, that is," Clara paused. "I — um, well, actually, I thought _you_ might know, Harry," she said to him.

"Me?" Harry was surprised to hear that. "No, I have no idea." This was getting curiouser and curiouser.

They stopped in front of the tapestry that was across the hallway from where the entrance to the Room of Requirement was located. "Let us in, please," Harry said politely, and an oaken door appeared, a plaque on the door reading "The Room of Requirement" in ornate engraving. Harry opened the door and he and Clara went inside.

"Oh, oh my," Clara said, looking around. The room was in classroom mode, with the teacher and student desks near the entrance, the vast collection of books in a maze of bookshelves, and the museum of objects, just like the first day Harry had seen this room. "This is almost exactly the way I remember it."

"You _remember_ this?" To say Harry was surprised was an understatement! "Have you seen this before, Aunt Clara?"

"Oh yes, of course!" Clara was looking around excitedly. "I used to teach here! Oh, it's been so long, I'd nearly forgotten!"

"I wondered if you'd remember." Uncle Arthur had appeared at last, dressed in his usual window-pane jacket and fedora. "You used to tell me stories about this place, Clara."

Clara turned and saw Arthur. "Ah, there you are!" she beamed at him. She went over and gave him a hug. "Yes, it's been a while, Arthur," she agreed. "The old classroom has been spruced up a bit, I see."

"It had been in mothballs a long time when I got here," Arthur said. "I took the opportunity to clean it up some."

"Excuse me," Harry cut in. "You never told me you'd been here before!" he said to Arthur in an accusing tone.

"Well, I was never _here_ , dear boy," Arthur chuckled. "I attended Hagatha's school when I was old enough — she'd just opened it and was looking for students. Plus, we liked to keep it in the family, so to speak.

"This school was started so that wand wizards in England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland would have a place to get an education," Arthur continued. "I'm sure that rather boring Binns fellow must have told you all this in his History class."

"Cuthbert?" Clara asked. "Is he still teaching here? Oh-oh my! I didn't think wand wizards lived that long."

"They don't," Arthur shrugged. "He's a ghost now."

"We just had a bit of a row with him this morning," Harry remembered. "One of the girls in my class asked him about the Chamber of Secrets." He looked at his aunt and uncle. "Do either of you know anything about that?"

"Oh! I do!" Aunt Clara spoke up excitedly. She paused for a moment. "Or, I _thought_ I knew. Salazar said something to me about it, once, after he'd left the school." She thought furiously for several seconds. "It's not coming to me just now…"

"It's alright, Aunt Clara," Harry said, gently. Eventually she would remember, he knew. "Maybe we should find out why Uncle Arthur asked you to come here."

"Oh, _that_." Arthur looked at them a bit sheepishly. "Well, your Aunt Clara has agreed to take over your night lessons, Harry. Haven't you, Clara?"

"I did?" Clara asked blankly, then nodded, remembering. "Oh, yes, I did! Oh, it will be so wonderful to teach again!" She beamed happily at her nephew. "Won't it, Harry?"

"It will, Aunt Clara," Harry smiled, genuinely happy it was her taking over for Arthur. He turned to his uncle. "What are you going to do, Uncle Arthur?"

"Well, you know me, Harry," Arthur said airily. "I'm a bit of a rolling stone, and —" his clothes changed into a black pullover with a wide-lipped, open mouth on the front, a tongue protruding from it. Arthur's hair became shoulder-length, and there was a microphone in his hand. "I — can't — get — no — _satisfaction_!" he said-sang into the mike.

"Funny," Harry said, deadpan. Arthur laughed and popped back into his jacket and fedora.

"Well, I guess I'll be moving on," Arthur said. He put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'll see you around, kid," he said, warmly. "Keep on studying. Later, Clara!" He vanished.

"Well, _that_ was rather abrupt," Clara muttered. "I was going to talk to him about your current lessons."

"Well, I can get you caught up on my current studies," Harry offered. He glanced at his watch. It was 12:25, well into the lunch period now. "I suppose we should talk to the Headmaster, too, and let him know you're taking over my tutoring from Uncle Arthur."

"Alright," Clara nodded. "Oh, I can't wait to get started on your lessons, Harry!" she happily enthused.

Harry smiled, wondering just how interesting his life at Hogwarts had become with this new development. "Well, why don't we just get started, then?"


	12. The Old Switcheroo

.

 **Chapter Twelve**

 **The Old Switcheroo**

 _Updated_ 12/30/2015

 **=ooo=**

 _26 September 1991  
_ _Thursday, 7:22 a.m.  
_ _Gryffindor Tower first-year dorm room—_

Harry sat up in bed, smothering a yawn. It had been a busy day yesterday. He'd skived off his afternoon classes, Herbology and Double Transfiguration, to help Aunt Clara get acquainted with his nighttime classes. When he returned to the Room of Requirement at nine p.m. last night, Clara spent the entire three hours of class time reminiscing about her time teaching young witches and warlocks in the "Classroom" (what she said they called the Room of Requirement back then) during the early days of Hogwarts, back before Clara's sister Hagatha had started her own witchcraft school, stealing away Clara's students.

Clara, characteristically, took her younger sister's actions with grace and good humor, though she did miss teaching. She disguised herself as a wand witch named Edessa Skanderberg (or was it Skandenber? Clara was never quite sure what she'd named herself) and returned to the school in the early 1400s to teach Charms, eventually becoming the Headmistress in 1429. She was credited with introducing the subject of Muggle Studies to the school's curriculum, in an effort to foster more understanding between wizards and Muggles. After holding the position of Headmistress for nearly 75 years, Clara reluctantly decided to move on to other things and Edessa "died" in 1503; her portrait still hung in the Headmaster's office beside other former school Heads.

While Harry had found all of this _very_ interesting and listened raptly to her stories, after three hours Aunt Clara had yet to open a book or teach a lesson. It hadn't been _boring_ — the time had seemed to fly by — but when Arthur and Aretha were teaching him they seemed to get a lot more done during those three hours. There was usually time to go through three or four Muggle lessons as well as show Harry some witchcraft spells for him to practice.

Afterwards, being Wednesday night Harry then had to hurry off to midnight Astronomy class. Clara had apologized profusely and promised that the next evening they would buckle down and begin studying in earnest. Harry had gone off to Astronomy, then returned to the dorm with Ron and dropped tiredly into bed, going to sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

"Wake up, sleepy-head," Dean said as he walked by Harry's bed. He stopped as Harry rubbed sleep from his eyes. "You're in trouble, you know," he said matter-of-factly. "McGonagall asked where you were yesterday."

"I was breaking in a new tutor," Harry muttered. "My Aunt Clara is taking over for Uncle Arthur." He rolled his legs off the bed.

"Aww," Dean groaned. "Too bad, I liked your Uncle Arthur! He really shook this place up a bit, didn't he? Is your aunt like him?"

"Not really," Harry said. "Aunt Clara's pretty unique." He got off the bed and walked slowly toward the bathroom.

"Neville and Seamus are already in the showers," Dean said. "You'll have to wait."

Harry groaned. He wanted a shower _now_! "I'll figure something out," he muttered, then trudged into the bathroom as Dean raised an eyebrow at him.

"What're you gonna do?" he asked, smirking. "Take a bath in one of the _sinks_?" Laughing, Dean headed down to the common room to wait for Seamus so they could go down to eat breakfast.

"What're you gonna do, take a bath in one of the sinks?" Harry mocked in a whiny falsetto tone, though not loud enough for either Seamus or Neville to hear. He stared at the two shower stalls; steam from hot water was rising out of each one. _That's_ what he needed — warm, soapy water washing down on him, relaxing and waking his muscles for the upcoming day. Well, so what was stopping him? Was he a warlock or not?

Harry gestured at the bare space next to the closer shower stall and a third stall appeared. Harry stepped inside and with a quick gesture vanished his pyjamas. He waved at the shower knobs and they turned by themselves, spraying warm water on him that was just the right temperature. Harry picked up a bar of soap and a washcloth and quickly soaped himself up. Ahh, this was wonderful! All the hassles of yesterday with Lockhart's idiocy and Clara's long-winded (but _interesting_ , he reminded himself) trip down memory lane began to drift out of his head. He rubbed soap all over himself, enjoying the warmth and the lather he was making. Time seemed to drift by more slowly as he enjoyed the shower.

"What the _hell_?!" The loud voice jolted Harry back to the present. How long had he been zoning out? He focused his warlock senses into the bathroom, where Seamus, dripping wet and wrapped in only a towel, was staring in shock at the third shower stall. _Damn_ , Harry thought. _I thought I'd be finished before Seamus_! He always took the longest showers in the morning!

"What is it?" Harry heard Neville call out. "What's wrong, Seamus?"

"There's a third shower stall in here!" Seamus shouted back. "When did we get a _third_ one?!"

"Uh, I only saw two when I got in," Neville yelled. "Let me see!" The water in Neville's stall went off and Harry heard the latch being undone. He had to act fast.

Harry popped into the stall Seamus had been in. At the same time he vanished the third stall with a flash of light that momentarily dazzled Seamus. When Neville stepped out of his stall into the bathroom Seamus was rubbing his eyes and pointing toward the empty spot where the third stall had been. "Dammit," Seamus was saying. "Something got in my eyes." He blinked until he could keep them open again. " _What_?! Where the hell did it go?!"

Neville was looking back and forth between Seamus and the two stalls. "Maybe you were sleepier than you thought, Seamus."

"No," Seamus shook his head firmly. "I was _just_ taking a shower! I got out and there was a third stall! I _swear_ I saw it!"

"I only see two," Neville said, shaking his head.

Seamus stepped toward the second stall and heard water running. He banged angrily on the door. "Oi! Who's in there? Answer me!"

The water shut off and a few seconds later Harry emerged wearing a bathrobe, with a towel around his shoulders. "Oh hi, Seamus," he said, rubbing his hair with the towel. "You still here?"

"Where else would I be?" Seamus demanded. "I _just finished_ taking a shower in that stall!"

"So did I," Harry smiled. "But you were done, like, ten minutes ago. I thought you'd be dressed and off to breakfast with Dean by now."

"No I _wasn't_!" Seamus yelled. "Look at me, I'm still dripping —" He reached up and ruffled his hair, to show how wet it was. But his hair was bone dry. So was the rest of him, courtesy of a quick-drying spell Harry had surreptitiously cast on him. "Er, I —"

"It's okay, Seamus," Harry said gently, patting him sympathetically on the shoulder. "Looks like you're still half-asleep."

"I'm awake," Seamus declared, but he was still looking around the bathroom in confusion. "I'm awake," he said again, trying to convince himself it was true. He shook his head and walked out of the bathroom.

"What was _that_ all about?" Neville said when Seamus was gone.

"Who knows?" Harry shrugged, feigning ignorance. "You know Seamus is always trying to pull some kind of prank. I think this one just didn't work out." He and Neville both left the bathroom.

A few minutes later all three were dressed, as was Ron, who'd awakened late and skipped his shower that morning; they collected Dean in the common room and went down to the Great Hall to wait for breakfast to appear promptly at eight a.m.

Everyone in the Great Hall began tucking into breakfast. Harry fixed his usual plate of fried eggs, a heap of hash browns, some rashers of bacon, and a few sausages, along with slices of toast and a glass of pumpkin juice. Beside him, Ron's plate had all that, with beans and black pudding added for good measure.

"Merlin, I'm hungry this morning!" Ron said, leaning into his plate as he started eating. He'd already eaten a few sausage links as he was putting them on his plate. "What classes do we have this morning?" he asked Harry.

"Charms, Transfiguration and Defense," Harry mumbled around his eggs.

Ron looked at him. "Better watch your step in Transfiguration," he said. "McGonagall's not happy you missed our double class yesterday."

"I heard," Harry replied. "But it couldn't be helped, I had to help get Aunt Clara settled into her new job as my tutor."

"I don't' think that's going to impress McGonagall much," Ron shrugged.

"Probably not," Harry agreed, unhappily. "But I happen to like Aunt Clara more than I do McGonagall, so I'll just deal with whatever she throws my way."

Hermione entered the Great Hall and sat down next to Harry and Ron. "Good morning," She said, pouring herself a glass of pumpkin juice. She then put an egg and a slice of toast on her plate and began eating. "By the way, Harry, Professor McGonagall isn't happy about you missing —"

"Yes, I heard all about it," Harry said wearily. He remembered what he was going to ask her. "Did you put up a notice about that book in the Library?"

Hermione shook her head blankly. "What book?"

Harry frowned. "The book I found yesterday, the diary with nothing written in it except a name, T. M. Riddle. You asked me if you could look at it, remember?"

Hermione shook her head again. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Ron leaned over. "Of course you do, you asked me about it right after Harry left the common room yesterday!"

"No, I didn't," Hermione disagreed, frowning at him.

"Yes, you did!" Ron insisted. "You said you were gonna go show it to Professor Lockhart!"

Harry turned to glare sharply at Ron. "Ron! What did you tell her?"

Ron winced. "Er, I might have mentioned we were going to show the book to Lockhart," he muttered, sheepishly. "But Hermione's the one who actually took it to him!" They both looked back at her. "Well?" Ron asked in an insistent tone.

"Well, _what_?" Hermione snapped. "I told you I _don't know anything_ about a book!" She stood, picking up her plate and glass, and moved down the table to join the other first-year girls, who were all chattering about Lockhart.

Harry and Ron looked at each other. "That was weird," Harry said.

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "I thought she had a better memory than that."

"I heard that!" Hermione said loudly, further up the table.

Ron shrugged. "Guess her hearing's okay."

Harry wasn't sure what to make of this. Now he wished he'd put a trace spell on the book, so he could find it if it got lost! Hermione had acted pretty interested in it yesterday — Harry wondered if she was pretending not to know anything so she could study it more on her own.

But that didn't make any sense. It was just some old book, and Harry wouldn't have cared if she wanted to study it more. The only thing interesting about it _at all_ was that it was a diary in which nothing had been written in it but a single name for nearly 50 years. Well, they had bigger fish to fry. "Forget about that diary for now," he told Ron. "We've got Defense this morning, just before lunch, right? I'm going to ask Lockhart to prove he opened the Chamber of Secrets in class and see what he says. He's going to refuse, of course, and then we can go to McGonagall and tell her what he's been telling everyone. Lockhart will have to _prove_ he knows where the Chamber is or end up disgraced in front of the whole school."

Ron nodded. "The only thing I'm worried about is who'll replace him once he's sacked," he said. "Course, _anybody's_ got to be better than Lockhart!"

 **=ooo=**

Professor McGonagall assigned the next chapter in _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ , and told the class to get started reading it for the remainder of the class. As Harry was getting out his book she said, "Mr. Potter, would you come up here, please?"

Ron gave him a sympathetic look as he got up to walk forward. Harry stopped in front of her desk, but McGonagall gestured for him to come around to her side. Wondering what was going on, Harry went around the desk. "Yes, Professor?" he asked, warily. "I know I wasn't in class yesterday, but I had to help my Aunt Clara — she's my new tutor, my Uncle Arthur had to leave —"

McGonagall held up a hand and Harry fell silent. She unobtrusively took out her wand and waved it in a complicated pattern. Harry felt a magic spell form that isolated them from the other students in class, like a primitive form of becoming invisible and intangible, abilities all witches and warlocks were capable of. Now nobody would hear or see clearly what he and McGonagall were saying.

McGonagall folded her hands on the desk in front of her. "I can't say I'm sorry to see your Uncle Arthur leave," she said, honestly. "He was quite disruptive, as you know. Although," she added, _almost_ smiling. "It was rather amusing seeing Professor Snape in that clown suit. But you didn't hear that from me," she added, sternly.

"No, ma'am," Harry agreed, managing not to smile.

"I hope you Aunt Clara will be more amenable to our school's environment," McGonagall went on. "In fact, I'd like to meet her sometime soon, to discuss it with her."

"I'll mention it to her," Harry nodded. He thought about mentioning that Clara had taught here in the school, but decided to leave that up to Clara. "Is there anything else, Professor?"

"Yes." McGonagall's expression softened. "It has come to my attention that you and Mr. Weasley have recently earned at least 10 House points each in the course of your studies. Despite the fact that those points were awarded by Professor Lockhart —" her mouth twisted in disapproval as she said this "— I have decided to return your Cloak of Invisibility to you. _With_ the provision," she added quickly, "that you _will not_ use it to circumvent school rules. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry nodded, hoping he sounded sincere. He and Ron had earned those points over two weeks ago — why had it taken McGonagall this long to acknowledge them? Of course, he didn't really _need_ the Cloak to sneak around the school invisible, but it provided a cover story for his warlock abilities. Which McGonagall knew about as well, even if she couldn't tell anyone about them.

McGonagall nodded, apparently satisfied. "Come to my office after classes this afternoon and I shall return it to you."

"Thank you," Harry said, truly being sincere this time. As he'd learned, the Cloak had been in his family for centuries, passed down until it had come into the possession of his father, James, who had loaned it to Dumbledore before he was killed by Voldemort.

"That's all, then," McGonagall said, raising her wand to cancel the privacy spell, until Harry put up a hand. "What is it, Mr. Potter?"

"Speaking of Professor Lockhart," Harry said, in a low voice even though no one could hear them. "I heard about something he said the other day that's been bothering me."

McGonagall's square glasses flashed as she turned to him; the eyes behind them were sharp with interest. "What have you heard, Mr. Potter?"

"The professor claimed that, when he was a student here, he found and opened the Chamber of Secrets."

"Ah," McGonagall nodded. "Professor Binns mentioned that to the Headmaster this morning. Apparently someone in your class asked him about it yesterday — it upset Binns quite a bit."

"Professor Binns said the Chamber was only a legend," Harry recalled. "But Professor Lockhart said he actually _saw_ it. I would think," he went on, in a carefully calculated tone, "that if he could take you or Professor Dumbledore to see it, that would prove its existence for sure."

"And if he _couldn't_ ," McGonagall countered, "it would prove him a fraud. Yes, Mr. Potter, the Headmaster and I discussed just that subject this morning in his office, before the staff meeting."

"And?" Harry asked, hopefully. "Are you going to ask him to show it to you?"

"Of course not," McGonagall said, flatly.

"What?" Harry was dumbfounded. "Why not?"

"Mr. Potter." McGonagall sighed, then removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Harry. Professor Lockhart is here to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts for the remainder of the school year. His proclivity towards — shall we say _exaggeration_ — has been well-established in his short time here at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore has informed me that it is his intention to eventually make it known that many of Lockhart's —" Harry noticed that even McGonagall had dropped the 'Professor' honorific "— adventures in his books were exaggerations as well. But in the meantime, it is necessary that he continue teaching classes here at Hogwarts. Do you understand?"

"Not really," Harry said, frowning. "He's not really _teaching_ us anything, you know. That doesn't make any difference to _me_ — I already know most of the spells in the first-year books — but it's not fair to the other students."

"I agree," McGonagall said, unhappily. "But you are just going to have to make do with what you have, Mr. Potter. We cannot afford to lose another Defense professor this year."

"Even _Lockhart_?" Harry shook his head in disbelief. "Professor, even _I_ could teach the first-years more magic than he's capable of doing!"

A bemused expression spread slowly across McGonagall's face, and Harry had a sudden, horrible suspicion he'd said more than he should. "That is an _excellent_ idea, Mr. Potter! Perhaps you could organize an informal class and teach the other first-years what you know. Not letting on, of course, that your, ahem, _abilities_ , are much different than theirs."

Well, he'd stepped into _that_ one, hadn't he? Harry thought morosely. "I'll, er, see what I can do, Professor," he murmured unenthusiastically.

If McGonagall noticed his tone she only nodded, a rare smile creasing her features. "Excellent, Mr. Potter! I shall inform the Headmaster of your plans. Perhaps students in other years can volunteer to teach such classes as well!" She waved her wand and the privacy bubble around them vanished. "Thank you, Mr. Potter," she said, and Harry turned and slouched back to his desk, sitting down next to Ron.

"What was all that about?" Ron whispered as soon as he sat down. "You were up there almost 10 minutes!"

"Never mind, I'll tell you about it later," Harry muttered sourly, opening his Transfiguration book to the assigned chapter and beginning to read. Today was going so far, _not_ so good at all.

 **=ooo=**

Next period was Defense, and Harry was not looking forward to listening to Lockhart's ramblings about his past exploits, punctuated by the _ooohs_ and _ahhhs_ of his fan club. He, Ron and the other first-year boys trudged along behind the girls, who were wondering what adventure Professor Lockhart would regale them with today.

The worst part was, Harry couldn't even ignore Lockhart and get other homework done, because the man insisted on acting out his adventures in front of the class, and lately he'd been calling upon Harry to help him! Harry would be forced to play the role of some hapless werewolf or vampire trying to attack Lockhart, and Lockhart would describe in excruciating detail how he thwarted the attack, though in the real world none of his spells would have worked. That didn't matter to his fan club, though, who always hung on his every word.

 _With_ the possible exception of Hermione these past few days, Harry reminded himself. While she listened to his stories along with the other girls, Harry had noticed a look of confusion or a frown on her face as she digested Lockhart's wild tales. He figured he'd planted enough doubt in her mind that she was rethinking how she felt about the guy. Once he was sure she was no longer being taken in by Lockhart, Harry decided, he was going to tell her that McGonagall had ordered him not to expose the professor as a fraud. Then, he hoped, if Aunt Clara remembered where the Chamber of Secrets was (assuming she ever knew in the first place), perhaps they could pay a visit to the place and see what was actually in there.

As they neared the Defense classroom they saw their third-year Gryffindor classmates approaching, having just left the room. The expressions on their faces were strange, as if they'd seen or heard something they didn't understand. The group walked past in what seemed like a daze. "Oi!" Ron finally called out to Fred and George. "What's wrong with you lot? Did Peeves throw stupid dust on you or something?"

Fred stopped and turned back to them. "You'll see," he said in an odd tone. "I don't think I believe it myself, but you'll see."

"See _what_?" Harry asked, but Fred had run off to catch up with his twin. He and the other third-years continued walking away.

"What's gotten into them?" Hermione, who'd stopped to watch them as well, asked of no one in particular.

"Professor Lockhart must've told them something really scary!" Lavender suggested excitedly. "Oooh, I love being frightened!"

"You _hate_ being frightened," Ron reminded her. "Every time Lockhart has Harry pretend to attack him in class you squeal like a little girl."

"I do not _squeal_!" Lavender retorted, indignantly. "It's more like a shriek. _Pigs_ squeal, _girls_ shriek." Ron rolled his eyes.

"We'd better go find out what's going on," Harry muttered, and they entered the Defense classroom. Lockhart was at the front of the room, writing on the blackboard, though the chalk he was using wasn't leaving any marks. He didn't seem to realize they were there. The girls took their usual seats near the front of the class, while the boys settled in behind them.

"What's he writing?" Ron whispered to Harry, as Lockhart continued to ignore them.

"Can't tell," Harry whispered back. He brought his warlock vision to bear on the chalkboard, but still couldn't see that the chalk was making any marks at all. The girls were whispering amongst themselves as well, trying to divine the Defense professor's purpose. Normally he greeted them every time they came to class, grinning and winking jovially at them. Having him ignore them was, well, _weird_.

The bell rang for class and Lockhart turned to face them. Normally he began each class by flashing a blinding smile at everyone, but today his expression was calm and focused. "Alright, let's begin," he said. "First, I see that many of you have _Voyages With Vampires_ open to Chapter Four: my trip to Lithuania to search for the Pokrovsky vampires. You may put that book away."

The girls looked at each other in confusion. "Professor," Fay spoke up. "I thought you were going reenact that chapter for us today."

"We have more pressing concerns, Miss Dunbar," Lockhart told her. "I am here to teach you Defense Against the Dark Arts, and we have quite a bit of classwork to catch up on."

What? Harry found himself trying to process that statement and failing. Was Lockhart actually _trying to be a teacher_? Ron's mouth was hanging open in shock, as were almost everyone else's in the room. The only person who appeared even remotely happy at this turn of events was Hermione, who seemed eager for Lockhart to get down to the business of teaching.

"Now, let's quickly review where we should be at this time," Lockhart said. He gestured toward the blackboard and writing appeared where he'd been marking on the board earlier. There was a list of creatures printed there:

Doxy  
Imp  
Pixie  
Fairy  
Gytrash  
Ashwinder

"These creatures are described in the first four chapters of your first-year Defense Against the Dark Arts book, along with spells that can be used against them if they are encountered," Lockhart explained. "Take out a sheet of parchment and list each creature and those spells. Books will _remain closed_ for this test. When you're finished, turn your sheets over. When time is up I will collect them."

There was a low moan from several of the first-years, which Lockhart seemed not to hear. Harry glanced at Ron — he looked panicked. "Don't worry," he whispered, "You can copy my answers."

"Thanks," Ron whispered gratefully. Hermione was already writing down answers as Harry pulled parchment and quill from his book bag. He quickly copied down the list from the board, then set about listing the counter spells under each creature.

So what the bloody heck was going on here?! Yesterday Lockhart had been boasting about finding the Chamber of Secrets to anyone who would listen, meanwhile forcing students like Harry to reenact incidents from his books instead of teaching them the Defensive Arts. _Today_ he was acting more like McGonagall, using real textbooks instead of his own books and handing out pop quizzes. Small wonder the third-years had looked so stunned!

Ron's eyes were flicking back and forth between Harry's parchment and Lockhart, glancing over when the professor's eyes weren't on him. Harry had completed the quiz but pretended to keep writing so Ron could finish as well. Ron finally nodded and turned his sheet over. Harry followed suit a half-minute later so it wouldn't appear they finished at the same time.

Neville finished a minute after Harry did. Dean and Seamus were both still working on theirs, as were most of the girls at the front of the class. Hermione, predictably, had turned over her sheet several minutes ago — she was the first one to finish the quiz.

"Time is up," Lockhart finally announced. Dean and Seamus both groaned, as did Fay, Darla and Lavender. Of the girls, only Hermione and Parvati had turned their sheets over. Lockhart took out his wand and gave a casual wave; the parchment sheets floated in the air up to the front of the room. Impressive, Harry thought, at least for Lockhart, who had up until that time never successfully cast a spell in their presence. He picked up the parchment sheets and studied them.

"I see we have some work to do," he murmured. "Mr. Thomas and Mr. Finnigan, neither of you completed the quiz. Mr. Longbottom, there are a few incorrect answers here, but at least you came by them honestly. Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, you both have all the correct answers, but I also noticed Mr. Weasley copying from Mr. Potter — ten points from Gryffindor for cheating." Harry and Ron both groaned. How did Lockhart _know_? Ron had been very careful when copying Harry's answers!

"Miss Granger, you did very well," Lockhart continued. "Full marks once again. You may take five points for Gryffindor." Hermione's smile seemed to light up the room as the other girls looked enviously at her.

Class was dismissed 30 minutes later, and the group headed in different directions. Seamus and Dean set off immediately for lunch in the Great Hall, while Harry, Ron, Neville and the girls went up to the Gryffindor common room to get their books for the afternoon. _And_ to talk about when and why the sudden change had come over Professor Lockhart.

When they arrived in the common room it was already abuzz with news of the "new" Professor Lockhart. Two other Gryffindor years, the fifth and the third, had already experienced the change in the Defense professor. "I can't figure what his game is," Fred Weasley was saying. "Why would he suddenly get serious about teaching us _now_ , after two weeks of his idiotic stories and reenactments?"

"Like it even matters to _you_ , Weasley," Angelina Johnson, another third-year, sneered at him. "You hardly study at _all_ and still manage to get good grades in your classes!"

"It's clean living on their part," Lee Jordan, Fred and George's friend, spoke up for them, grinning. "And mine, too. We've tried to strike a balance between study and the practical."

"Meaning," Katie Bell interjected. "You and the Weasleys are the biggest pranksters in the school, Jordan."

"Nobody's accused us of being boring," George pointed out, smiling. "But we're getting away from the issue. Why is Lockhart acting like a real teacher all of a sudden?"

"Maybe he's afraid of getting sacked," Harry suggested. Everyone looked at him. "I think Professor McGonagall or Dumbledore said something to him about it."

"What makes you think that, Potter?" Katie asked.

"When I talked to Professor McGonagall this morning, she knew he was spreading stories like saying he'd opened the Chamber of Secrets and beat the monster inside it," Harry answered. "But Professor Binns told us the Chamber doesn't exist. I was going to ask Lockhart to prove what he'd done but McGonagall told me not to say anything."

"Of course the Chamber exists!" another third-year, Ken Tower, spoke up. "A student was killed 50 years ago when it was opened back then!"

"How d'you know _that_?" Ron asked.

"Professor Flitwick told one of his classes about it," Ken answered. "I heard about it from a Ravenclaw named Cho Chang."

"Oh, yeah," Lee Jordan grinned. "That's the bird you fancy, isn't she, Kenny?"

Ken reddened slightly. "Maybe," he said, vaguely.

"What difference does it make why Professor Lockhart's changed?" Hermione suddenly said, looking around at the other Gryffindors in exasperation. "Isn't it _enough_ that he's decided to become a better teacher now?"

There was a moment of silence. Then, "No, not really," several other students said, including Fred and George. " _Way_ too weird of the bloke," Fred added matter-of-factly.

"Oooh!" Hermione snapped, then turned and marched up the stairs to the girls' dorms.

"She runs off mad a lot, doesn't she?" Fred mentioned to Harry, who shrugged.

"She still thinks Lockhart hurled the moon," Ron snorted. "She's just happy he's actually handing out real lessons now."

"I guess we'll have to wait and see what happens," Lee said, and the impromptu meeting broke up as students started going down to lunch.

"Is that what you really think?" Harry asked Ron as they walked toward the boys' staircase. "Hermione's happy because he's a real teacher now?"

"You saw her when Lockhart had us do that quiz," Ron pointed out. "She was smiling from ear to ear when he gave her five points for those answers."

"I guess," Harry muttered. They went into their dorm and put their Astronomy textbooks in their book bags. Their afternoon classes were Astronomy and Flying and there was no textbook for Flying class.

On the way back down to the common room, Harry asked, "So remind me what happened yesterday with Hermione and that diary after I left with Aunt Clara."

"Umm…" Ron thought for a moment. "Hermione asked me where the book really came from. I told her you found it just like we said. Then I _accidentally_ mentioned you were going to show it to Lockhart, and she ran off with the diary to do just that."

"So she was the last person to have the diary," Harry muttered as they entered the common room. "And she was going to see Lockhart…" He looked at Ron. "Maybe Lockhart's got it and he made Hermione promise not to tell us where it is."

"Why would _he_ care about a raggedy old diary?" Ron asked as they left through the portrait hole. "The only books he cares about are _his_."

"Except that _something_ made him care about teaching again," Harry pointed out. "Maybe there was something in the book that changed his mind," he speculated.

"Or that book might have a curse on it," Ron suggested. "You gotta be careful around old books, Harry. My dad works for the Ministry, you know — he told me about a book that would burn your eyes out if you tried to read it. Then there was a book called _Sonnets of a Sorcerer_ — after you read it you spoke only in limericks for the rest of your life. And he said there was some old witch in Bath that had a book she could _never_ stop reading! She had to wander around with her nose in it, doing everything one-handed —"

"Alright, Ron, I get it," Harry said. Curses like that _probably_ couldn't affect him, he thought, but they might be dangerous for wizards. "I'll be careful around old books like that diary, but we've got to get it back first."

"You think Lockhart has it, then?" Ron wondered.

"Can't hurt to ask him," Harry decided.

"Our next Defense class isn't 'til Monday," Ron reminded him.

"That's true." Harry mulled the situation over for a few seconds. "Maybe we can go to his office today after Flying class. Oh, wait," he remembered. "I have to go to McGonagall's office after classes and get my Cloak back."

"Oh, really?" Ron beamed. "Is that what she was talking about with you this morning?" Harry nodded. "That's brilliant, Harry!"

Harry nodded absently. "It should be alright." He had a sudden idea. "We can use the Cloak to sneak into Lockhart's office after I get it back. Maybe we'll spot a clue about why he's acting different now."

"As long as we don't get caught again," Ron warned. "McGonagall might expel us next time we get caught sneaking around."

"We won't get caught again," Harry said, confidently.

"Isn't that what you said before we were caught the first time?" Ron asked, in a flat tone.

"I think I promised you wouldn't die a very painful death," Harry grinned.

"Oh well, all right then!" Ron quipped, and they both laughed as they continued walking down to the Great Hall to eat.

 **=ooo=**

After flying class Harry stopped by Professor McGonagall's office, but found it empty. He waited a few minutes, hoping she'd remembered he was coming by, then gave up and went back to the common room to find Ron shivering in front of the fireplace, warming himself. The weather outside had been chilly that day and while flying around the grounds was fun, Ron hadn't been dressed for it.

"I _gotta_ figure out how to cast a Warming Charm!" he told Harry, his teeth chattering.

"Here," Harry said, taking out his wand. He pointed it at Ron and said, " _Ferventus_!" Ron sighed as a warming sensation took the chill off his hands and face. In seconds he felt normal again.

"Thanks," he said, gratefully. "Much better!" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Did you get your Cloak back?"

Harry shook his head. "She wasn't there. She must've forgotten." He glanced at his watch. "It's only 4:15, almost two hours before dinner. Want to do some homework?"

"Not really," Ron answered, with a look that suggested Harry was a bit mental for asking a question like that. "I'd _like_ to practice some Quidditch, but it's too bloody cold for that right now."

"Wood is going to have us practicing right up to our first game on November 9th," Harry pointed out. "It's going to get pretty cold outside before then."

"Don't remind me," Ron shivered at just the thought of practicing in the cold October weather. "Why don't we go talk to Lockhart about that book?"

Harry thought for a second. "Why not?" he shrugged, and they left the common room and went to his office on the second floor, but it was empty as well.

"Why can you never find a teacher when you want one?" Harry complained. "But when you _don't_ want to find them they pop up out of the woodwork!"

Ron put his hand on the doorknob. It was locked. He gave Harry a sideways glance. "Want to have a poke around inside?" he suggested boldly.

Harry smiled. "I thought you'd never ask," he said. He took out his wand and pointed it at the lock. " _Alohomora_ ," he said. The lock _clicked_ and Harry reached out and turned the knob. The door opened.

Now in reality the Unlocking Charm hadn't worked at all, but Harry hadn't expected it to, not against a Defense professor's office door. He'd cast a witchcraft spell to unlock the door. Even if Lockhart was a fraud he probably had stuff to protect, so he had to be good at things like locking charms. He and Ron slipped inside. As he shut the door Harry restored the protections on the lock, just in case.

The office wasn't especially big, but it had a large wooden desk on one side, in front of a bookcase filled with books about Defense Against the Dark Arts, and other subjects as well. Harry didn't see any of Lockhart's books in the bookcase, but a moment later he spied a wooden box with a number of them stacked inside.

On the walls were numerous portraits of Lockhart — all of them asleep at the moment, fortunately. Presumably these portraits of Lockhart could keep watch over the office for intruders, like the woman in Snape's office and Eodwin the Obscure, who'd been placed in their dorm room to spy on them. Strange that they were _all_ asleep now, Harry thought.

There were dozens of candles sitting around the room: on the desk, in stands, on cabinet tops and bookshelves. None of them were lit, which was a good sign, Harry decided — it meant Lockhart might be gone for a while. Still, they had to look around quickly and get out of there as soon as possible.

Harry surreptitiously cast a witchcraft summoning spell for the diary, but nothing appeared in his hand. Either the book wasn't in this room or it was _very_ well hidden. That was another mystery, if true: Lockhart wasn't powerful even by wizard standards, so how could he have hidden a book in this room that Harry's witchcraft couldn't summon? He had to have the book with him. That meant the book must be a lot more important than Harry had originally suspected.

"So where do we look?" Ron was inspecting the room with the careful eye of a boy with several older brothers who liked to keep secrets. He pointed at Lockhart's desk. "Think it's in there somewhere?"

"Maybe," Harry nodded. "But I don't want to go poking inside the desk — he might have put protection spells on it."

Ron looked amused. "Lockhart? Come on, Harry! The most powerful spell that bloke knows is probably the Styling Charm he uses every day to fix his hair!"

Harry chuckled, but— "Better safe than sorry, Ron. Let's just have a look at what's on top of the desk instead."

There wasn't much on Lockhart's desk. Up in the left corner was a stack of parchment envelopes that looked like fan mail. Most of them were unopened. There was a capped ink well on the right side of the desk, but no sign of Lockhart's peacock quill, or any other quill for that matter. Harry opened the ink well, found it almost dry. In the center of the desk was a folder filled with parchment sheets. Harry peeked; they were class assignments, they looked like essays on recognizing the signs of lycanthropy in wizards. "I don't see anything helpful," Harry muttered. "We better get out of here before Lockhart gets back."

Just then they heard footsteps coming up to the door, followed by several loud _clicks_ , like someone was undoing locking charms. Ron opened his mouth — and Harry clamped his palm over it, to keep him from saying something and giving them away. Ron looked at him, wide-eyed, and gestured helplessly. _What are we going to_ do, he seemed to be saying.

As the door started to open Harry put his arm around Ron's shoulders and gestured silently. There was no other choice. They vanished as Lockhart stepped into the room, looking around warily, as if suspicious that something had happened in his absence. He looked around carefully, then put a hand to his robes. Feeling the diary safely tucked away into the hidden pocket of his robe, he smiled with quiet satisfaction.

Harry and Ron reappeared in the seventh-floor corridor that led to the Gryffindor common room. Harry let go of Ron, breathing a sigh of relief. Ron, however, stood stock-still, as if trying to work out what had just happened.

Finally, he turned to Harry. "What the bloody _hell_ just happened?"

Harry held up his thumb and index fingers a fraction of an inch apart. "We missed getting caught by Lockhart by _that_ much."

"Yeah, I figured that much out. But what I _meant_ was, how did we end up _here_? We're not supposed to be able to Apparate inside Hogwarts, are we?"

Harry sighed. "No, but we didn't exactly Apparate, either."

"Then what did we do?"

"We teleported," Harry told him. "It's like Apparition, but it's more advanced."

"And you know how to do it? _How_ do you know?" Ron asked, curious.

"Er, well, my tutor showed me how," Harry finally said, reluctantly.

"Can you show _me_ how to do it?" Ron asked eagerly.

"Er —" Boy, it would be _really_ handy if he knew how to make Ron forget what had just happened!

But wait a minute, he reminded himself. Ron's your best mate, isn't he? Doesn't he deserve to know what you're really capable of? You told Hermione, didn't you?

 _But in Hermione's case it was different_.

Not really. The only difference was that Voldemort made Ron pass out instead of her, so _she_ got to see Samantha and Arthur deal with him instead of Ron. And Ron's stuck by you more than she has, hasn't he?

"Well?" Ron prompted, waiting for Harry's reply.

"Ron," Harry said slowly. "I've got something to tell you about myself."

"Okay," Ron said, waiting for it. "Go ahead."

Harry looked around the corridor. "We ought to go somewhere private. And I know just the place."

 **=ooo=**

Thirty minutes later Harry and Ron were standing in the Room of Requirement in its "Classroom" mode. Ron was sitting in one of the student desks, his mouth hanging open. Harry had just explained about his witchcraft. "I can't believe it!" he finally said. "How come nobody ever heard of people like you, Harry?"

"We're hidden, just like wizards are hidden from Muggles," Harry explained. "I think the biggest difference is, we've always been hidden from wizards and Muggles, unlike wizards, who only went underground about 300 years ago, when they officially established the International Statute for Secrecy."

"But weren't your mum and dad like my parents?" Ron asked. "A regular witch and wizard? How did you end up being a — a warlock?"

"I've got warlock blood," Harry said. "Samantha really is my cousin, though it goes back loads of generations — she told me that I'm descended from her father and a wand witch named Marjory FitzStephan, about a thousand years ago."

"Wow," Ron muttered. "So who else knows about you?"

"Just you," Harry said quickly. Then, "Well… Hermione knows, too."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How long has _she_ known?"

"Just a little while," Harry hedged. "A couple of weeks."

"I see." Ron crossed his arms, looking perturbed. "So you told her weeks ago, but just _now_ got around to letting me in on your little secret? Thanks _loads_ for trusting me so much, Harry! When would you have told me if we hadn't had to get out of Lockhart's office in a hurry, then?"

"Ron, it's not like that," Harry tried to explain. He hesitated. "Well, it kind of is that way — you tend to repeat everything you hear, you know. This is something nobody can know about."

"And you think I'd _tell_?" Ron snapped, getting even more upset. "Who d'you think I'd tell?"

"Fred and George, for one," Harry pointed out. "You're always reminding them you're best friends with Harry Potter — wouldn't you want to tell them I was a warlock if you could?"

"No," Ron said immediately. "Well — yeah, it would be cool if they knew. But I'm not going to tell them _now_ , if that's what you're thinking!"

"Good," Harry nodded. "It's just between you, me and Hermione, okay?"

Ron didn't look especially happy about that, but he nodded. "Okay." He looked around the room again. "So this is where you go at night? To take _more_ lessons?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "I learn wand magic during the day, then witchcraft and Muggle subjects at night. I used to have to come here from nine p.m. to six a.m. for lessons, but that was too much so we cut it back to three hours a night."

"Still," Ron said, shaking his head. "Six hours of classes during the day, then three more at night… I'm surprised you get by on only seven hours of sleep a night!"

"Well, it's seven and a half hours," Harry shrugged. "But yeah, I'm sometimes tired on Thursday mornings after our midnight Astronomy class."

Ron seemed to realize something. "So…why are you even _here_ , Harry? You said you don't even _need_ to use a wand to do magic, right? So what's the point of learning how?"

Harry was tired of everybody asking him that question. Samantha, Endora, Tabitha, even Uncle Arthur! "It sounds like you don't want me around, Ron," he retorted.

"I didn't say _that_ ," Ron quickly replied. "It was just a question, Harry — I just don't know why you'd want to do more schoolwork than you have to!"

"Okay — sorry," Harry apologized. "It's just that I wanted to see where my parents went to school, you know? One of my aunts has a school for witchcraft, but there aren't many kids enrolled there, and when Samantha took me to visit one day nobody seemed to like me very much. And they all seemed kind of —well, stuck up and superior."

"Sounds like Slytherin," Ron muttered.

Harry nodded agreement. "At least _here_ —" he gestured to include the room around them "— I've got a nice place to study and a teacher all to myself. And the wand magic isn't that hard to learn."

"Maybe not for _you_ ," Ron said. "Or Hermione, for that matter."

"Come on," Harry said. "You're doing okay in class, Ron." Harry didn't want to say, but Ron just needed to study a bit more and stop relying on Harry to bail him out when he forgot to do his lessons.

"Hey," Ron said, giving Harry a calculating look. "How 'bout if I come to one of your lessons tonight?"

"Um…" _That_ took Harry by surprise. "I don't know if that's a good idea, Ron." What would Aunt Clara say if he brought a wand wizard to class?

"Why not? You're learning wand magic, why can't I see what _your_ magic is like? Come on, _please_?" Ron asked cajolingly.

Harry gave in. "Okay, sure," he agreed, even though he felt, somewhere in the back of his mind, this would come to no good. "You can come with me tonight. I don't think Aunt Clara will mind." _Hopefully she'll actually_ teach _something tonight_ , Harry added to himself.

"Excellent!" Ron beamed. "Say, I'm starting to get hungry. What time is it?"

Harry checked his watch. "About ten minutes to six. I guess we might as well go now." He started to walk toward the Room of Requirement's exit when Ron stopped him.

"Hey. Let's do it that way you can do it — you know, teleport down there."

"Okay," Harry agreed. "But we're not going to make a habit out of this, okay?" Ron nodded agreement, grinning.

Harry stepped next to him. "Ready? Here we go." He snapped his fingers and they vanished.

 **=ooo=**

 _8:58 p.m.  
_ _Slytherin common room—_

Draco returned to the common room just before it was time to contact his father. Crabbe and Goyle began clearing out the common area, shooing other students off to their rooms to ensure Draco's privacy.

Draco was excited to speak to his father. He wished Mother could be there as well, but his father had implied in the letter he'd received that morning that the subjects they would discuss were not for her ears.

The ancient clock on the mantle of the fireplace began to strike nine, and Draco took a pinch of Floo Powder from a bowl next to the hearth, tossed it into the flames, and said, "Malfoy Manor!"

The flames turned emerald green and lost their heat. Draco leaned forward into the flames. There was a flash of green and when his vision returned he was looking at fireplace level into the drawing room, one of the largest and most elaborately furnished rooms in their manor. His father, Lucius Malfoy, was sitting sedately in a chair next to the fireplace, regarding him calmly. When he saw Draco's face his father smiled. "Hello, Draco."

"Father," Draco nodded. "I got your letter."

"Of course," the elder Malfoy nodded. "Are you alone?"

"Crabbe and Goyle are here," Draco answered.

"Have them monitor the doors to the common room to ensure we are not interrupted."

"They are, Father," Draco replied, a bit impatiently. Did his father think he was _stupid_? "I've made sure no one is listening."

His father nodded slightly, but then he said, "There is no such thing as a completely secure Floo connection, my son. You would do well to remember that."

"Yes, sir."

"Having said that, I hope your _reading_ assignments are going well," Lucius went on. Draco knew what he was referring to — the diary that his father had sent him a few days ago, with instructions to plant it on Harry Potter.

"I've completed that assignment, Father," Draco said proudly.

"Good," his father murmured. "And how are things going otherwise at school? Everything progressing normally, as expected?"

"There haven't been any changes thus far," Draco replied. "Oh, I suppose you heard — we have a new Defense professor now. Gilderoy Lockhart. He's a bit of a joke, really — the Headmaster is really scraping the bottom of the barrel these days."

"I've heard of Lockhart," his father said, coolly. "Don't waste your time with him, he's just there to fulfill Ministry educational requirements, not to teach you anything useful. Keep your eyes on the prize." Meaning Potter, Draco knew.

In the letter that had come with the diary, his father had implied that once Potter had the book, interesting things would begin to happen at the school — what, exactly, was still unclear, but his father had written that Draco and "his fellow students"— meaning the other Slytherins — would know what to do once they began to occur.

"I'm wondering when something is going to happen," Draco said, trying to sound like a bored schoolboy. "Our first Quidditch match with Gryffindor is scheduled for November ninth. That's over a month from now. I hope we have something more to talk about before then."

"I expect things will begin happening before too long," Lucius said in a carefully casual tone. "My son, it has been good talking to you tonight. Your mother sends her love, as do I."

"Thank you, Father," Draco smiled. "Goodbye." He withdrew his head from the cool emerald flames, and they flashed yellow and red once again.

So, whatever was going to happen with Potter and that diary should happen soon, Draco surmised. The book didn't seem very interesting, but his father had warned him not to open it or even handle it too much before passing it off to Potter, so there must be a curse of some kind on it. Draco smiled with malicious satisfaction, thinking how he had cozied up to Potter over the past few weeks, greeting him in the hallways and during meals, pretending to be nice to him so he could get close enough to sneak the book into Potter's book bag. Whatever his father's plans were, he was looking forward to the changes they would bring. If Draco knew his father's motives (and he was pretty sure he did) things would begin looking bright for Slytherin, and for pure-bloods, very soon now.

 **=ooo=**

 _4:05 p.m. local time  
_ _West Palm Beach, Florida  
_ _Stephens residence living room—_

"I'm glad you stopped by, Aunt Clara," Samantha smiled as she handed her favorite aunt a hot cup of tea. "It's been a while since we've had a chance to catch up on things."

"Oh, well, I always enjoy visiting my favorite niece, Samantha," Clara replied, accepting the tea. "And my favorite nephew," she added to Darrin, who was sipping on a glass of iced tea.

"Thanks, Aunt Clara," Darrin smiled in reply. Of all of Sam's relatives, Aunt Clara had always been the one he got along with the best, perhaps because she reminded him of his Aunt Madge, who sometimes thought she was a lighthouse. "So what have you been up to lately, Aunt Clara?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," Clara replied airily. "Do you know, Samantha, I saw a 1743 MacDougall Westminster door latch just the other day! Ooh, it was very nice!" Clara looked quite excited as she said this. Darrin looked questioningly at Samantha.

"You remember Aunt Clara's doorknob collection, dear," Samantha reminded him.

"Oh, yes…" Darrin had in fact tried to forget about that, but it explained why several of the doorknobs in their home back in Westport had gone missing over the years.

"Oh, I did so want one of those," Clara went on, sounding wistful. "But young Harry reminded me that I probably shouldn't take it without asking."

"Oh?" Samantha looked up from her tea. "You were with Harry? When was this?"

"When was what?" Clara asked. "Oh! You mean with Harry! Well, I was visiting him up in Scotland at that school where he's staying — oh, did I mention that Arthur asked me to take over tutoring him?"

"You did?" That was news to Samantha! "When did this happen, Aunt Clara?"

"Oh, well it was…" Clara looked blank for a moment. "Well, just the other day, in fact. He and I begin our lessons tonight at, at-at nine. At least I think it's nine," she added to herself.

Samantha and Darrin exchanged glances. "Aunt Clara," Sam said gently. "It's past nine in Scotland now, they're five hours ahead of us."

"They are?" Clara set her cup of tea down, flustered. "Oh dear, oh dear, I'd better be going, then!" She stood and held out her arms. Her coat and hat appeared.

"Let me know how the lessons go, Aunt Clara," Samantha said, rising to give her a hug.

"Of course, dear, of course," Clara said. "Well, I'm off!" She made a sweeping gesture to send herself on her way, but nothing happened. She tried again but still no result. "Um, Samantha dear, could you give me a hand?"

"Of course, Aunt Clara." Samantha gestured and Clara vanished.

"Ta-taa!" Clara's voice echoed through the Stephens living room.

"Bye, Aunt Clara!" Darrin and Samantha called out.

"I'm not so sure about Aunt Clara giving Harry his lessons," Samantha said, after she was gone.

"She seemed pretty positive about it, Sam," Darrin remarked.

"Aunt Clara is always positive," Sam agreed.

"And you're always positive something's going to go wrong," Darrin teased her.

" _Well_ ," Samantha said, defensively. "I hope I'm wrong this time."

 **=ooo=**

 _9:02 p.m.  
_ _The seventh-floor corridor outside the Room of Requirement—_

Harry and Ron popped into the empty hallway opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach ballet to trolls. As Harry stepped up to the wall the door to the room appeared. "Hurry up," Harry said to Ron. "We're late."

They stepped inside, but found the Classroom empty except for Harry's body double, which was sitting in one of the student desks, dressed in pyjamas. Ron gave it an odd look. "Who's this supposed to be?" he asked.

"It's the dummy I use to pretend I'm still in bed asleep," Harry said. "It changes places with me at night when I get into bed and close the bed curtains."

Ron went over and peered closely it at. "Huh," he said. "Well, that explains why you were so hard to wake up some mornings."

"Ha-ha," Harry said. "Uncle Arthur made it so if someone touches the dummy I feel it — that way I can tell if someone's trying to wake me up."

"That's interesting," Ron said. He reached out and tweaked the dummy's nose.

"Ouch," Harry said, touching his own nose. "Stop that!"

Ron held up his hands. "Sorry, just curious!"

"Right," Harry muttered. Coming over to the dummy, he snapped his fingers at it. The dummy vanished. "Now it's in my bed, pretending to be me while asleep."

"So where's Aunt Clara?" Ron asked, looking around the room.

"I'm sure she's coming," Harry said. _At least I hope she didn't forget_.

There was a sudden _WHOOMP_. Both Harry and Ron started and turned toward the wall, which had been bare a few seconds earlier, but now had a large stone fireplace sticking out from it. Sitting on the hearth was a disheveled Aunt Clara, brushing soot out of her hair and the furry collar of her coat.

"Aunt Clara!" Harry exclaimed, and he and Ron ran over to help her up. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I think so," Clara said, looking around in confusion. "My, that was quite a hand Samantha gave me!" She began dusting herself off, and the air quickly filled with dust and soot.

"Here, Aunt Clara, let me," Harry said, and with a quick snap of his fingers all the dirt and mess was instantly gone." Ron blinked in surprise. "There, that's better," Harry said.

"Yes, thank you, Harry," Clara said gratefully. "Alright, well…" She walked over to stand in front of the teacher's desk. "Why don't we get started?"

"Yes, ma'am." Harry and Ron took their seats.

"Alright, then," Clara began, then noticed Ron for the first time. "Wait, who is this?"

"Aunt Clara, this is my friend Ronald Weasley," Harry said. "He's a wand wizard and he wanted to attend one of my lessons, to see what they're all about."

"Oh, I see," Aunt Clara nodded. "Well, Ronald, it's wonderful to have you here today."

"Thank you, ma'am — er, Professor, er — uh…" Ron looked at Harry for help.

"You can call me Aunt Clara, dear," Clara told him. "And don't be afraid to ask me anything — about Harry's lessons, this school, anything at all. I've been here since the beginning, you know."

"The beginning of what?" Ron asked.

"Of the school, of course," Clara said, gesturing to include everything around them. "I was here when Godric, Helga, Rowena and Salazar started it all."

"You're joking!" Ron said, looking awestruck. Harry hid a wince. He hadn't expected Aunt Clara to go _that_ far back! "You really knew the Founders?!"

"Oh, oh of course," Clara nodded. "Very nice folks, all of them — though Salazar was a bit full of himself, sometimes. And Godric did like swinging his sword around a bit too much."

Ron's mouth was hanging open in shock. He looked at Harry. "Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago! Hermione told me!" He looked back at Clara. "Are you _really_ that old?"

Clara blushed. "Well, a lady's not supposed to reveal her age, but I have seen a few things since the fall of Rome." She looked around the room thoughtfully. "There's a very old book in here somewhere, it has an engraving of the five of us standing together in front of the castle just after it was raised. Let's see if I can call it here for you to see."

Harry started to say something, to suggest that he and Ron could look around through the bookshelves if she remembered the name of the book, but Clara had raised her arms in front of her and began to recite:

 _Eye of newt, feather of raven,  
_ _Show us now that image graven!  
_ _Powers of witchcraft, days of yore,  
_ _Bring to me the Founders Four!_

There was a blinding flash of light and a large cloud of smoke obscured Clara from Ron and Harry's view. She coughed and waved her arms, dissipating the smoke. Standing with her were four figures that Harry and Ron both immediately recognized: Clara had brought the four actual Founders to life!

Clara looked around as the four people surrounding her stared around the room in confusion. "Uh-oh," she mumbled. "Goofed again!"


	13. Gimme that Old Time Magician

.

 **Chapter Thirteen**

 **Gimme That Old Time Magician**

 _Updated_ 1/16/2016

 **=ooo=**

Harry and Ron stared at the four new arrivals in shock. Could Aunt Clara really have summoned the four Founders to the present day? One of the limitations of witchcraft was that you couldn't summon anyone from further in the past than you had been alive. But Aunt Clara had said she knew the Founders personally when they first got together.

"Are — are they r-really…the —?" Ron began to ask, stammering.

" _Wat cas_?" the largest of the four, a tall, powerfully built man with a head and beard of thick, red hair, said loudly, a gloved hand going to the sword at his belt. " _Pardee, seistow_!" He pointed toward Harry and Ron, who both took a step back.

"Aunt Clara," Harry said quickly. "What's he saying?"

"Oh, he's — he's speaking in Old English," Clara told them. "That's how they spoke back then."

The four turned toward her. "Clara?" one of the women said in recognition.

"Oh, yes!" Clara nodded happily. "Yes, it's Clara, you _do_ remember me! Well," she said, holding out her arms. "Let's see if I can fix that language problem.

" _Nouns and verbs, words forgotten,  
_ _Make our visitors speech more modern_!"

 _Not a great rhyme_ , Harry thought. _I just hope it worked_.

"Clara, what has happened to us?" the tall swordsman asked her. "Where are we?" Apparently her spell _had_ worked.

"Oh, hello, Godric," Clara said. "It's nice to see you again!"

"Yes, Clara, but —" Godric looked around the room, confused. "Where have you brought us? I do not recognize this place."

"None of us do," the other man in the group, a thin, balding fellow, spoke up as well. "We were discussing the —"

"We were discussing school matters," one of the women, a matronly lady with rosy cheeks and a bright smile, spoke over the man. She held out her arms toward Clara. "It's so good to see you again, dear!" She stepped forward and she and Clara hugged each other for several seconds as the others watched — Godric was smiling, while the thin man and the last person, a tall, regal woman with black hair and fine clothing, both looked on with neutral expressions.

"Clara," the tall woman said as Clara and the matronly lady stepped apart. "How are you?" she nodded slightly and asked in a formal tone.

"Oh, can't complain, Rowena, can't complain," Clara replied, a happy smile on her face. In spite of her goof bringing them here, she was clearly happy to see these people, Harry realized.

"All of you," Clara said to the four. "I'd like to introduce these two young men to you. This is Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. Both of them are students here at Hogwarts."

"Ah," the thin man spoke. "So we _are_ in Hogwarts, then? Yet I do not recognize this room, Clara."

"Oh, well, Salazar," Clara looked rather abashed. "Well, I'm — I'm afraid none of you ever knew about this room, back — er, back in your day."

"Back in our day?" The tall woman, Rowena, looked at Clara, puzzled. "What do you mean, Clara? Is this not the year of our Lord 1050, the year we founded Hogwarts?"

"Ah, well, um, n-no it isn't, Rowena," Clara stammered. "It's the year, um, let me think a moment —"

"It's 1991," Harry supplied.

"Oh yes, thank you, Harry," Clara agreed. "It's — it's 1991."

"But how can this be?" Godric demanded, stepping toward Clara. "Clara, we know you are powerful for a witch, yet even _you_ could not wield such magic that could fling us all so far forward in time! Naught but Merlin himself could perform such miracles!"

"Well," Clara shrugged. "Er, _surprise_. I guess I don't know my own strength at times." The four Founders looked at one another.

"This is most amazing," Helga said excitedly. "To think we have indeed traveled to the far future! Clara, what has become of our fair school — has it grown and prospered in the intervening time?"

"Oh my, yes!" Clara nodded. "Now hundreds of young witches and wizards attend Hogwarts each year, learning subject such as — such as…" She looked at Harry. "Um, Harry, what subjects _do_ wizards learn here?" she asked.

"Oh, um…" Harry, not expecting the question, thought for a moment before replying. "Er, there's Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology… er …"

"And Defense Against the Dark Arts," Ron put in, finally finding his voice again. "And there's Potions and Astronomy and Flying, and —"

"Flying?" Rowena spoke sharply. "Oh, surely we don't allow such crude devices as _brooms_ here at Hogwarts!" She glared at her fellow Founders. "Which of you authorized training in broom flying without my knowledge?"

"But—" Ron flinched as the black-haired woman turned her gaze back toward him, but he pressed on. "But brooms are a lot better than they were when they were first invented! They have Cushioning Charms and Braking Charms to make riding easier, and the brooms themselves are much better made than they were back then."

Rowena looked at Godric. "It appears many things have changed since we founded our school. I would like to see how well Hogwarts fares these days."

Godric nodded. "As would I." He turned to Helga and Salazar. "What say you? Shall we test the mettle of those who have taken on the mantle of teaching the subtle science of the Magical Arts?"

All _sorts_ of alarms were going off in Harry's head at the thought of the four Founders roaming the halls of Hogwarts. "Er, that might not be a good idea," he said, quickly.

"Why not?" Helga asked. "Is this not the school we founded? Should we not be free to see what has transpired since its founding?"

"Why, yes," Clara agreed. "I would like to see that, too, I think!"

"Aunt Clara," Harry said, warningly. "We can't just let them run around the school!"

"Why not?" Clara didn't seem to realize the problems that could cause. "It is _their_ school, after all, isn't it Harry?"

"But —" Harry looked at Clara's puzzled, expectant expression, and the impatient frowns on the faces of the four Founders, and couldn't come up with a reason they would listen to. "Oh, what the heck," he shrugged. "This could be very interesting."

 **=ooo=**

Harry and Ron led the strange procession out of the Room of Requirement and down the seventh-floor corridor, heading toward the corridor where the entrance to Dumbledore's office was located.

No sooner had they stepped from the Room than Godric's attention was caught by the tapestry hanging on the wall across from the exit. "What is this?" he demanded, seeing a wizard trying to coax a group of strangely dressed trolls into performing a dance.

Clara stopped as well. "Oh, that's Barnabas," she said, smiling fondly at the image of the wizard, who was evading the clubs of the trolls as they surrounded him. "He was quite an innovator of the arts. When ballet was being developed in Italy in the fifteenth century, he tried to have it brought here to England.

"Unfortunately," she went on, "no — no one really thought it would catch on, so Barnabas tried to demonstrate by teaching trolls how to dance. He-he-he reasoned that if a troll could learn the ballet, anyone could."

"That sounds completely barmy," Godric muttered, turning away.

"He's got that right," Ron whispered to Harry, jerking a thumb at the tapestry. "No wonder he's called Barnabas the Barmy!"

They continued down the corridor, their four visitors looking around in wonderment as went along. Ahead of them, Ron kept stealing glances back toward the four and Clara. "So who are these four, _really_?" he asked Harry.

"They're the Founders, Ron," Harry muttered dully. "Isn't that obvious?"  
"Well, yeah," Ron said. " _Course_ it is. But the Founders lived a thousand years ago. That can't really be _them_ , can it? I mean, it's really four people dressed up like the Founders, right?"

"No," Harry replied wearily. "It's really them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin."

Ron shook his head in disbelief. "Come on, Harry, you're _joking_! They've all been dead for centuries! Nobody can bring back people from the dead." He looked back at Aunt Clara. "Can they?"

"They're _not_ 'back from the dead,' Ron," Harry explained. "Aunt Clara brought them forward from the time when they _were_ alive to today."

"She can _do_ that?" Ron marveled. "Bloody hell, Harry! That's amazing!"

"Actually, it was a mistake," Harry said. "She was trying to summon a book _about_ the Founders, not the Founders themselves."

"Well, why can't you just send 'em back, if you can do magic like her?" Ron asked.

"Not that simple," Harry disagreed. "I can't undo her magic unless I know the exact spell she used. And even though I _do_ know the spell, I can't send them back because I wasn't alive at the time when they came from."

"And your Aunt Clara _was_?" Harry nodded. "Whoa," Ron shook his head, awed. He stole another glance back at the four. "So what do you think Dumbledore's going to say about this?"

Harry shrugged unhappily. "I think he's going to have a fit."

The group stopped in front of the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office. The gargoyle stared unblinkingly at Harry and Ron, waiting to hear the password, but it blinked in surprise when Godric Gryffindor stepped forward to address it. "M-master?" it stuttered.

"Hello, Xerxes," Godric nodded. He gestured toward Clara and the three other Founders standing behind him. "We — my friends and I — would like to visit the current Headmaster."

"By all means, Master!" Xerxes the gargoyle nimbly stepped aside as the wall behind him split apart, revealing the spiral staircase leading up to the office. The seven of them mounted the stairs.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" Aunt Clara enthused happily. "It's been such a long time since I've been in the old office — I wonder what it looks like now?"

Ron looked questioningly at Harry, but he just shook his head, as if he didn't know what Clara meant. He wasn't even going to _try_ explaining that Clara had once been a Headmistress of Hogwarts as well as being present at its founding.

A minute later they stood on the landing at the top of the stairs, facing the large polished oak door. Clara was admiring the brass door handle, stroking it gently, but Godric simply took hold of the griffin knocker and rapped it smartly. The door opened of its own accord and the seven of them stepped inside.

"Whoa…" whispered Ron, looking around in awe. Harry had been here before and he hadn't been overly impressed that time, either. Of course, that may have had something to do with Uncle Arthur pranking him by turning into his exact double and getting them both into trouble. The last time he'd been here, Electra had come to Hogwarts to provide a distraction for him, and had ended up in the Headmaster's office.

Fawkes, seeing Harry, trilled a greeting to him, but Harry shook his head fractionally, indicating he couldn't respond. For now, he didn't want any wand wizards, even Ron, knowing he could speak to animals, especially not a powerful magical creature like a phoenix.

"There's a lot more books than the last time I was here," Clara remarked, looking around. "Ooh, shiny!" she said, seeing some of the silver devices on spindly tables around the room.

"Where is the Headmaster?" Godric grumbled impatiently.

"Asleep," a raspy voice replied, and they all looked upward to where the Sorting Hat, perched on a high shelf, stared sightlessly down at them.

Godric broke into a smile. "Hat!" he exclaimed. "Are they still using you to Sort students? I am surprised you lasted this long, considering how ratty you were when I first enchanted you!"

"I've managed to hold my age," the Hat retorted. "Better than you have, considering."

"Considering what?" Godric asked, grinning.

"How are you here?" the Hat asked, ignoring the question. "Since I was first used, I have gone through 916 Sortings. No wizard of your kind has ever survived to such an age."

"Clara brought us forward to this time," Helga explained. "We are here to see what has changed at Hogwarts over all those centuries."

"I see…" the Hat dipped its tip, as if nodding. "That explains much about the one who created me. Tell me, do you ever hear anything these days from old Ma—"

At that moment a door opened and the Headmaster padded into the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he put on his half-moon spectacles. He was dressed in a long blue nightgown, with a sleeping cap on his head. "Here, what's all the commotion going on out here?" Dumbledore asked as he looked around the room. "Ah, I see what the problem is. I must be dreaming."

"Not a dream, Professor," Harry spoke up.

"Headmaster?" Godric asked. He thrust a hand toward Dumbledore. "Godric Gryffindor , at your service."

Dumbledore stared at the offered hand a long moment. "Excuse me?" he said, not sure he'd heard correctly. He looked at the other figures in the room: tall, elegant Rowena Ravenclaw, in her blue and sable attire; pleasant Helga Hufflepuff, wearing a golden yellow dress hemmed in gray; and thin, balding Salazar Slytherin, in his green and silver robes. The man before him, whom he recognized even before the man gave his name, was inches taller than he, broad of shoulder and dressed in red-brown leather with gold fastenings. The Sword of Gryffindor hung at his belt, and Dumbledore's eyes wandered to a glass case on a shelf high above him, one that held an exact double of the sword on Gryffindor's belt.

"Welcome, all of you," Dumbledore managed to say, smiling. "I have but a single question: Harry, what have you done _now_?"

Clara held up her hand. "Oh-oh, well, that would, um, be me, Professor—er, Headmaster, er —"

Dumbledore seemed to see Clara for the first time since entering the office. "Ah, my dear lady, I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." He peered more closely at her. "Excuse me for saying so, but your face seems familiar to me, somehow —"

"Over here, Albus." One of the portraits was waving at them. Dumbledore turned to find that the woman smiling at him from that frame was the same woman that was standing in his office.

"Edessa?" Dumbledore breathed in surprise, taken aback. He turned to look at Clara. "Is that _you_?" he asked, pointing to the portrait.

"Well, um, I-I-I think — I mean I _know_ — well, yes, that's me," Clara admitted. "But that was a long time ago. I'm just Harry's Aunt Clara now."

"I see," Dumbledore nodded. "Am I to understand, then, that you are responsible for the presence of these four in this office?"

"I'm — I'm afraid so," Clara smiled ruefully. "I guess I goofed."

"Aunt Clara, don't say that," Harry told her. "We can fix this — I remember the spell you used. We can send them back."

"Hold, boy," Gryffindor interrupted. "We do not wish to return just yet, but to stay and see what has become of our grand wizarding experiment."

"Yes," Ravenclaw agreed. "It will be quite illuminating to see what the last thousand years have wrought upon our school."

"Indeed," Slytherin intoned softly. "I am curious to see whether my ideas on blood purity have borne fruit lasting until this time."

"Then it is agreed!" Hufflepuff said happily. "We shall stay and learn just how much our ideas have taken root in the future!"

Harry braced himself for the explosion that was sure to come from Dumbledore at such an outrageous idea, but he was surprised to see the Headmaster beaming happily at them.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore applauded them. "I will arrange for rooms for all of you, and tomorrow morning we shall introduce you to our staff and the rest of our students! I am sure they will all be quite excited to meet you." He bowed to Clara. "And you as well, Headmistress Edessa. We are all honored by your presence here."

Aunt Clara tittered with embarrassed pride. Harry and Ron exchanged glances. What was Dumbledore so happy about? "I've got a bad feeling about this," Harry muttered.

 **=ooo=**

The Great Hall the next morning was filled with students well before breakfast began. During the night, notices had been posted on common room bulletin boards announcing a very special event at the beginning of breakfast that morning. The hall was filled with conversations and discussions about what the event would be.

Harry and Ron arrived a few minutes before eight a.m. Stopping in the doorway of the Great Hall, Harry shook his head in self-reproach. He had laid awake all night wondering whether he should contact cousin Samantha and tell her what was going on at the school. He couldn't bring himself to do it then, but seeing the expectant looks on the faces of the other students, as well as the teachers sitting at the High Table in the front of the room, made him doubt his resolve.

Dumbledore's game now seemed obvious to Harry as he'd thought about it more and more last night. He, McGonagall and Snape knew about witches and warlocks, but they were prevented from communicating that fact to anyone who didn't already know. However, presenting the four Founders and a Headmistress who lived almost 500 years ago would raise loads of questions about where they came from, how they got here, and if the Founders and Clara started talking about it, they might say something that would give away the existence of witches and witchcraft. Harry had learned quite a bit in the past three months, but he doubted he had enough power to keep the entire school quiet. That meant he would have to bring in Samantha or Endora to help him out. And that would probably get him in enough trouble that they would take him out of Hogwarts, to prevent something like it from happening again.

As they approached the Gryffindor table Harry saw Hermione waving him and Ron over to where she was sitting. Lavender and Parvati were sitting next to her, and across the table were Fay, Darla and Neville.

"Isn't this exciting?" Hermione said as they sat down next to her. "What do you think the big announcement this morning is about?"

Ron gave an exaggerated shrug. "How would _I_ know?" he said, loudly. "Why would Dumbledore tell _me_?"

Hermione gave him an odd look. "The message on the bulletin board was from Professor McGonagall," she told him. "Why did you say Professor Dumbledore?"

"Well, he's the headmaster, isn't it?" Ron retorted. "He's almost _got_ to know what this is about."

Hermione nodded. "I guess you're right." She suddenly wriggled in excitement. "I think it's going to be something about Professor Lockhart!" she told them breathlessly. "He's been telling me some big things are going to be happening around here soon!"

"Hmm," Harry muttered distractedly, watching the expressions on the teachers at the High Table. All of them seemed to be waiting to see what would happen as well. McGonagall looked both worried and impatient, as if she was afraid of what was coming but wished they could hurry up and get it over with. Snape, on the other hand, was trying to appear disinterested, but he kept stealing glances at the other teachers, to see their expressions. Professor Flitwick looked excited, like he thought he knew what was going to happen. Professor Sprout just looked worried. The Astronomy professor, Professor Sinistra, was engaged in whispered conversation with three other people; Madam Hooch and two witches Harry didn't recognize: a thin woman with frizzy brown hair, wearing large round glasses that made her eyes appear enormous, draped in more than one fuzzy knitted shawl covered in beads and sequins, and the other, a witch with long, black hair, an alert expression, and smart green robes.

Other professors were present Harry didn't recognize: an older wizard with white hair, who seemed to be missing his left arm, and young, brown-haired wizard with a pleasant expression, sitting between Professors Flitwick and Snape. Missing from the teacher's table were Lockhart and Hagrid.

"I don't think anyone knows yet," Harry whispered to Ron.

"Knows what?" Hermione asked, leaning toward them. "What do _you_ know, Harry? Is this about Professor Lockhart?"

"Will you get off Professor Lockhart?" Harry said irritably. "It's not about Professor Lockhart!"

"How do you know?" Hermione demanded. "Did you use your —" she stopped, shooting a glance toward Ron. "— do you know something we don't?"

"Ron knows about me," Harry informed her. "I told him last night."

"I see." Hermione crossed her arms, staring at him and Ron. "Well, it makes sense, of course — you two _are_ best friends, after all." She leaned closer to speak in a lower voice. "But that doesn't answer my question — what do you know about what's going on this morning? _Is_ this about Professor Lockhart?"

"I said it wasn't!" Harry whispered back.

"He _told_ me something very interesting was going to happen shortly!" Hermione insisted.

"I don't care what he told you — wait a minute." Harry sudden recalled what she'd said a few seconds ago. " _When_ did Lockhart ever tell us something big was going to happen?"

"He didn't tell _you_ ," Hermione said smugly. "He told _me_." I talked with him for some time after classes yesterday. He's quite impressed with my knowledge of spells and the history of Hogwarts, he wanted to find out more about me." She smiled broadly. "I can't wait for the other girls to find out I've spent one-on-one time with Professor Lockhart! They'll be _so_ jealous!"

Ron looked disgusted to hear Hermione had spent so much time with Lockhart. Harry wasn't far behind him. Just when it seemed like she was coming round to their side about Lockhart, he had to go and get all academic on them! "Maybe you can ask him about that book you've got," Harry muttered petulantly. "Seeing's how you won't give it back to me."

Hermione shook her head, confused. " _What_ book? Why do you keep insisting I've got one of your books? I _don't_!"

"You _do_ ," Harry insisted stubbornly. He shrugged, irritated. "But it's no skin off my nose if you want to keep it, it's not even my book!"

Hermione threw up her hands in a gesture of irritation, then turned toward the High Table just as Gilderoy Lockhart entered the Hall. "Oh look! There's Professor Lockhart! Maybe now we'll find out what's going on!"

Rather than his usual prancing, waving and smiling toothily at his female admirers, this morning Lockhart simply walked up to his chair at the High Table and sat down, looking around alertly.

"Drat," Hermione said after a few moments, when it became evident Lockhart's entrance hadn't signaled the beginning of whatever was about to happen. "I was _sure_ this was about Professor Lockhart!"

"Hope your heart's not _too_ badly broken," Ron muttered sullenly. Hermione shot him a withering glance, then looked away with a sniff of contempt.

At that moment Dumbledore walked into the Great Hall, followed by the four Founders and Aunt Clara, and the room fell instantly silent, watching the five people with the Headmaster with extreme interest as they walked past the House tables to the front of the room. Harry saw Dumbledore glance in his direction, a small smile on his face, and was instantly _sure_ of his intention — he was trying to expose the existence of witches and warlocks, and was using Aunt Clara's goof to his advantage.

The procession stopped in front of the High Table as the four Founders turned to face the students in the room. Whether by coincidence or design, they were standing in the same order as the four House tables: Helga Hufflepuff on the far left, with Salazar Slytherin next to her, then Rowena Ravenclaw on the near right, and finally Godric Gryffindor on the far right. Aunt Clara was standing behind the four, next to Professor Dumbledore, wearing her usual plain black dress with low-heel shoes and a bead of pearls around her neck.

Dumbledore stepped up to the owl lectern in front of the High Table. The students, as well as the teachers at the High Table, leaned forward with interest to hear what he would say. "I am pleased to see you all here this morning," Dumbledore began. "As you can see, we have several very important visitors with us this morning." He gestured to the four people standing in front of him. "These are the four —" he stopped, clearing his throat. "Ahem. As I was saying, these are the four, er…" A rather alarmed look came over the Headmaster's face. "That is, the gentleman on my left is G—" the name caught in his throat. Dumbledore cleared his throat and tried again, but still nothing came out.

"Hmm, well," Dumbledore murmured. "Perhaps they need no introduction," he finally said.

Harry was smiling to himself. He couldn't say who they were! Perhaps the spell that kept him from revealing the existence of witches and warlocks was keeping him from saying anything with the mere _intention_ of revealing them! The room had begun to fill with muted conversations, questions and comments on who the four actually were, given that they very much resembled the original Founders of the school. Harry could hear his fellow Gryffindors questioning each other on why Dumbledore would bring in four people dressed like the Founders — what was the point, what was he trying to convey. And _who_ was the fifth person with them? Was she supposed to be someone important as well?

Dumbledore tried a different tack. He gestured toward Aunt Clara. "In any event, I should like to introduce another person from Hogwarts' past. Please welcome…Aunt Clara to the school."

There was a smattering of applause as students looked at one another questioningly. Aunt Clara? Who was _that_? Predictably, one of the Weasley twins chose to ask that very question. "Whose aunt _are_ you, Aunt Clara?"

There was laughter, but Clara took the question seriously. "Oh-oh," she said, momentarily startled. "Well, I'm-I'm-I'm Harry Potter's Aunt Clara. I'm very pleased to meet you all. I'll be tutoring Harry in witchcraft from now on."

Harry noticed Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape all looking carefully around the room at that, watching for reactions from the students, but what Clara said hadn't really given anything away. Wand magic was called both witchcraft _and_ wizardry — that much was implied in the very name of the school itself.

"Welcome to the school, Aunt Clara," Dumbledore said, joining perfunctorily in the smattered applause. When it stopped he added, "Can you tell the students just how our four friends standing before them came to be here?"

Harry flinched. Dumbledore had found a way around the spell keeping him silent about the existence of witches and witchcraft — Aunt Clara herself! If she told the school the four people were the real Founders it would be a disaster! _Don't say anything, Aunt Clara_! he thought loudly and desperately toward her, his thoughts blasting directly through the ether. _We aren't supposed to reveal our witchcraft_!

But Aunt Clara seemed not to hear him, so caught up in the excitement of being with her old friends was she. "Oh, well, of course," she said, smiling happily at the four Founders as well as the curious students who were now giving her their full attention. Dumbledore looked at her, beaming, and Harry groaned silently to himself as he saw the satisfied smile on his face. Then Dumbledore turned and looked away from Clara with a small nod to the empty air beside him.

What was _that_ about, Harry wondered, staring at the space next to the Headmaster. Why would he nod at empty air? Harry peered closer, seeing a slight shimmer there.

"Well now, you see," Clara was saying, as Harry continued to stare at the shimmer. "I was telling Harry and his friend Ron about the history of the school, and I wanted to show them an engraving of me standing with Godric, Rowena, Helga and Salazar, when I made a slight miscalculation in my spell… um…"

Harry had put his face in his hands, waiting for the inevitable explosion of questions that was sure to follow Aunt Clara's revelation that she had conjured up the Founders. After several seconds, however, when it didn't come, he looked up, looking around the room.

Everyone was still staring fixedly at Clara. _Too_ fixedly, in fact — no one was moving except Clara, who was looking into Rowena's face as the woman stared straight ahead, frozen. Harry looked at Hermione and Ron. Both of them were frozen, as well as everyone at the Gryffindor table. The entire Hall was the same way — everyone was frozen in place: the Founders, the teachers, the students. Even Ron and Hermione. Only Harry and Clara had been unaffected.

A moment later a familiar face appeared as Endora popped in, wearing her green and purple witch's robes, a stern expression on her face.

"Clara, what are you doing here?" Endora demanded. "Where's Arthur?!"

"Oh — oh, hello, Endora," Clara said, surprised to see her younger sister. "It's been a long time since we saw each other here, hasn't it?"

"Not long enough," Endora retorted. "Clara, you know you shouldn't have come back here! Isn't there a picture of you hanging somewhere in this place?"

"I've seen it, Aunt Endora. It doesn't really look a lot like her," Harry spoke up at last. He'd continued to look at the empty space next to Dumbledore after everyone froze. There was no longer a shimmer, but the air didn't look quite right, as if there was something more present in that spot than just air. "I have a question."

Endora and Clara both looked at him, Clara grateful for the diversion, Endora slightly miffed her rant against her older sister had been interrupted. What is it, Harry?" Endora asked curtly.

"Do you see anything funny about the air next to Professor Dumbledore?" Harry said, pointing to the spot. "I thought I saw something shimmering there just before you arrived."

Endora turned and glared at where Harry was pointing. "Oho," she said a moment later. "Good eye, Harry. I see a wizard wearing a rudimentary invisibility spell. Not a very good one, either — it's only about 95 percent effective, which is why you noticed the shimmer." She waved her hand and the wizard appeared: a pale, thin, shabbily-dressed man in patched wizards robes. Harry studied him, noticing his face was lined with age, though he otherwise appeared to be relatively young, and there were not-quite-healed scars cutting across his face. "Do you know who he is, Harry?" Endora asked.

"No," Harry shook his head. "But he appears to be watching either the four Founders, Aunt Clara, or both, and I think Professor Dumbledore was aware of his presence."

Endora rounded on Clara. "See, I warned you to be more careful about using your witchcraft! The old goat must have been trying to catch you in a public display of witchcraft!"

"Well, um, ah…" Clara stammered guiltily. "And here I thought he was such a nice fellow!"

"What were you thinking," Endora demanded. "Bringing these four to the present time, and in front of so many witnesses?"

"She was actually trying to summon a book," Harry said, defending her. "Aunt Endora, Aunt Clara wasn't trying to show off or anything. Well, maybe a little — she did want to show me an engraving of her with the Founders."

"That's true, Endora," Clara added. "Conjuring the Founders was just an accident."

"One in a long list of accidents, sister," Endora huffed. "You may need to consider another sabbatical in the Enchanted Realm, to recharge your powers."

"I suppose you're right," Clara admitted. "But-but, who will tutor Harry in witchcraft? Arthur had other business to take care of, he said."

"I suspect Arthur simply became bored with being here," Endora sniffed. "Especially since I heard from Samantha that the problem with Voldemort was solved in the first week of school."

"What about _you_ , Aunt Endora?" Harry suggested. "Couldn't you tutor me?"

"Me?" Endora looked surprised.

"Yes, why not? You were giving me witchcraft lessons when I was at Samantha's house, and Tabitha's, too. Why not here as well?"

Endora seemed to consider the idea. "Perhaps. I don't know, my social calendar is quite full for the rest of the year," she mused.

"Well, oh well, if you're too busy, Endora, then-then perhaps it would be easier for me to stay," Clara said. "I'll be careful not to let the cat out of the bag, witchcraft-wise."

"Well…" Endora turned to Harry. "Is that acceptable to you?"

"Sure," Harry quickly agreed.

"It's settled, then," Endora intoned. "Now, as to these wand-wizards from the past — Clara, if you would…"

"Oh, but they had their hearts set on seeing the Hogwarts of today," Clara protested. "Don't you think they can stay just a little longer? A day, perhaps?"

"I think it's too risky," Endora shook her head. "What with Dumbledore trying to prove witchcraft exists, and that one wizard who's been spying for him, it's not a good idea for them to remain here. Unless —"

"Unless what?" Harry asked, thinking quickly. With some time to consider things, having the Founders here could prove to be a useful distraction so Harry could figure out what was going on between Hermione and Lockhart. She and the Defense professor spending time alone together, along with his sudden change in attitude regarding teaching, made Harry very curious what was going on between them.

"Unless," Endora went on, smiling deviously. "I cast a spell on them, to keep them from revealing who they really are. If they won't admit they are from the 11th century, Dumbledore can't use that claim to show that there are more powerful witches in the world. Once everyone grows bored with having them around, you can sent them back, once Harry grows bored with learning wand magic —"

"Which I won't," Harry retorted. "At least not for a while. I _am_ enjoying myself here, Aunt Endora. Both my friends Hermione and Ron know I'm a warlock now, so I don't have to be so secretive around them anymore."

Endora looked unhappy to hear that more wand wizards knew his secret, but she said only, "See that they keep your secret, Harry, or we'll have to remove that information from their minds, and the minds of everyone who they might have told. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry nodded.

"Very well. And remember, Clara, your witchcraft has to remain a secret as well," Endora reminded her. "Now, you were about to describe how these four wand-wizards came to be here. Make sure you reveal _nothing_ about witchcraft in what you say!"

"Of-of course, Endora," Clara agreed, stepping back to where she'd been standing when Endora arrived. Endora gestured with both arms, vanishing from the room. At the same moment the wizard standing next to Dumbledore faded from view as well, though Harry could still see the air shimmer where he was standing, and everyone unfroze.

"Um, now, let's see," Clara continued, as if the room hadn't been frozen for the past ten minutes. "I-I-I thought it would be an interesting idea if, if, if, we 'met' the four Founders of the school, so to speak. My four friends, here, have-have agreed to be the Founders for a while."

"We _are_ the Founders!" Gryffindor insisted. "Who else would we be?"

There was muted laughter in the Hall, mostly coming from the Slytherin table. Dumbledore looked quite disappointed by her sudden about-face — if Clara wouldn't admit she conjured up the real Founders, he couldn't use them as evidence to prove that witches like her really existed. "Thank you, Aunt Clara," the ancient wizard said politely, though Harry heard disappointment and anger in his voice. Curses, foiled again! Harry smiled to himself.

"You mean they aren't real?" Hermione, next to him, whispered in disappointment.

"Oh, they're real," Harry told her. "But Clara can't say that without revealing that she's a witch."

"I see," Hermione said, her eyes gleaming with interest once again. "I think I'd like to ask them some questions, then!"

"Get in line," Ron muttered, watching as students from the four Houses began crowding around the Founders. But Hermione immediately jumped up and ran over to where Rowena Ravenclaw was standing, trying to get a chance to talk to her.

"Figures," Ron snorted after Hermione left. "No loyalty to us at all. She'd rather go off and talk to some thousand-year old woman."

"I expect you'd like to have a chat with Godric Gryffindor, if he wasn't surrounded by everyone in our House at the moment," Harry pointed out.

"Well…" Ron shrugged after a moment. "That sword is pretty cool."

Harry was still staring after Hermione. "I wish I knew what was going on with her and Lockhart," he said, almost to himself. Lockhart hadn't moved from his chair at the High Table, but he was watching the students crowd around the four visitor, a carefully neutral expression on his face. It made Harry wonder what he was up to.

Ron raised an eyebrow at him. "Seems pretty obvious, I'd think," he said.

"Really? What do you think happened?" Harry asked, curious.

"Well, the last time we saw Hermione acting normal — or as normal as any girl can act, anyway — you had just left the common room with your Aunt Clara," Ron said. "She took the diary you found in your book bag to show it to Lockhart — at least that's what she told me she was going to do. With me so far?" Harry nodded, bemused by Ron's serious tone.

"Okay, so the next time we see her, you ask about the book, and she denies knowing anything about it," Ron continued. "That doesn't make sense, because we _both_ remember Hermione asking if she could look at it. Then we go to Lockhart's class and he's suddenly acting all Professor Winesnap and everything."

"Who's 'Professor Winesnap'?" Harry asked, momentarily confused.

"Oh, he's a teacher in _Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle_ comic book I read," Ron explained. "He's always so serious and Martin drives him crazy with all the mad stuff he does."

"So… like McGonagall and you, then?" Harry suggested, smiling.

"Right!" Ron agreed, grinning. "Anyway, so what's the common factor between Hermione and Lockhart?"

Harry realized it in a second. "Ah. The diary. Assuming she did show it to him," he added. "Okay, maybe. But why did Hermione say she didn't know about the book, and why is Lockhart acting so different now?"

"Because it was cursed," Ron said triumphantly. "Just like I told you!"

Harry shook his head. "So why didn't it affect me? Or you? Or Dean, for that matter — he picked it up and looked at it, too."

Ron shrugged. "How do I know? That's just how cursed books are!"

"So what do you think we ought to do?" Harry asked, to see what Ron would say.

"Well, my dad works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry," Ron replied. "I could owl him and let him know about that book. It was obviously made by Muggles. He'd could come here and find it."

"You think Dumbledore would let him do that?" Harry asked, skeptically.

"Hmm, hadn't thought of that," Ron admitted. "Fred and George say that Dumbledore doesn't like the Ministry to come poking about the school."

It was nearly time for first period, but the throngs of students around the Founders hadn't thinned out at all. Hermione was still hovering near Rowena Ravenclaw, waiting for a chance to speak to her. Harry watched her for several moments, then shook his head and said to Ron, "Let's go to class."

"Don't you want to wait for her?" Ron said, a hint of expectation in his voice.

Harry looked back at her, then shrugged. "At least she's not hanging around Lockhart," he muttered. "When the bell rings for class she'll come running. You know she _hates_ to be late."

But at that moment Dumbledore drew everyone's attention by putting his wand to his throat, then began speaking in an amplified voice. "In honor of our visitors and your eagerness to talk with them, classes for today are hereby suspended."

A general cheer went up among the students, including Ron. Harry twirled his finger in the air in a "whoopee" gesture, something he'd seen on television at Samantha's house. "Now what do we do?" Ron wondered.

Harry shook his head. "No idea," he said.

Just then Draco walked up to them, followed closely by Crabbe and Goyle. "Hey," Draco said. "What's with these four playing dress-up, and that old woman with them? Is she really your aunt?"

"Yeah, she's my aunt," Harry nodded. "And those four are friends of hers. My Aunt Clara knows a lot about the Founders, and they're here to help her get adjusted to Hogwarts. I guess they're playing the Founders because Aunt Clara likes them so much."

"Well, that's a relief," Draco laughed. "I was afraid it was going to be another one of Lockhart's reenactments."

In spite of himself Harry laughed. "Yeah, I'm glad it's not _that_!"

"So how're things going with you lately, Harry?" Draco asked, solicitously. "Everything okay?"

Harry shrugged. "So far everything's fine. I have a new tutor and my other classes are going fine." He gave Malfoy a fake smile. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Draco shrugged. "Just asking. Well, we're gonna head back to our common room, see what's going on there. Come on Crabbe, Goyle." Draco and his two shadows left the Great Hall.

Ron watched as they left. He looked back at Harry. "He sure is concerned about how things are going with you lately, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "I noticed that, too."

"Fred and George told me his dad's in the Wizengamot," Ron said. "They say he's got old Fudge by the purse strings."

"What's 'old Fudge'?" Harry asked.

"Oh, he's only the Minister of Magic," Ron said. "Cornelius Fudge. Didn't you know that?"

"Nope." It hadn't occurred to Harry to care who or what was running the Ministry. A month ago he hadn't even known the Ministry of Magic even existed. "What's the Wizengamot, then?"

"It's a group of wizards that vote on laws and stuff," Ron explained. "All the old, rich families are in it, of course. It helps if your family is considered an 'Ancient and Noble House,' like the Blacks, though my dad says none of them have been in the Wizengamot since they put Sirius Black in Azkaban after his father died."

"Mmm," Harry murmured, not really interested. "Come on," he said, as Godric Gryffindor left the Great Hall, followed by a contingent of Gryffindor students who were hanging on his every word. "I think we'd better keep an eye on these four, keep them from getting in trouble."

Ron looked dubious. "How're we gonna do _that_? We can't be at four places at once." Harry smiled at him. "Can we?"

"No, of course not," Harry said. "But I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." He and Ron set off after Gryffindor and his entourage.

Walking down the corridor leading to the Slytherin common room, Draco Malfoy was grumbling unhappily to himself. "When the hell is something going to happen?!" he snapped as they reached the door to the common room. "Potter didn't seem like he was acting any different at all, did he?"

"Nope," Crabbe replied. "Maybe he hasn't found the book yet."

"Come on, it's in his book bag!" Draco said. "He's _got_ to have seen it by now!"

"Maybe you could ask him about it," Goyle suggested, then turned to the door and gave the password: "Dark Lord." The door opened and the three passed inside.

"Don't be an idiot," Draco scoffed. "That's almost like admitting _I_ put it in his bag! We've got to be more subtle than that. What do you think, Crabbe?"

Vincent Crabbe shrugged. "I guess I wouldn't worry about it," he said simply. "It's like that 'watched pot never boils' saying. If we stop worrying when something'll happen, it'll happen."

"Huh," Draco said, mildly impressed. "You're probably right, Crabbe. Okay, let's just wait and see what happens. My father's starting to get worried, though. I think he expected everything to change the moment Potter got hold of that book."

"What's going to change?" Goyle wondered. "Did your father say what, exactly?"

"No," Draco replied. It was irritating, like his father didn't exactly trust him. That was one reason why he was determined that this plot with Potter and the book should work. "But maybe there's a way we could find out…"

"How?" Crabbe said. "What d'you have in mind?"

"You'll see," Draco said, making up his mind. "Come with me. We have things to do." He led the way back out of the common room, Crabbe and Goyle on his heels.

 **=ooo=**

In the Great Hall, Albus Dumbledore rested comfortably in the golden chair that stood at the center of the High Table, munching contentedly on a lightly-buttered piece of toast. Next to him, on his right, was Minerva McGonagall, looking much more worried and tense than was her usual wont. Further down the table, Severus Snape sat watching him. Though his sallow features were more expressionless than Minerva's, Albus was sure he was just as tense and worried as she.

The reason for that tension and worry was seated on Albus's other side: the woman he knew as Aunt Clara; who, he was also sure, had also been at one time Edessa Skanderberg, a witch and Headmistress of Hogwarts during the fifteenth century. Four hundred years ago. That made Clara (or Edessa) almost as old as Nicholas Flamel, who Albus had learned was a warlock, just as Samantha Stephens, her mother Endora, and the man who had called himself Uncle Arthur, Harry Potter's first tutor, had been. Albus had learned of these people several months earlier, when he had gone to Samantha Stephens' home in Florida to persuade her to allow Harry to attend Hogwarts.

He had learned these people, these witches and warlocks, were capable of magic well beyond anything he or any other wizards were capable of performing. They could Apparate in and out of Hogwarts at will, could conjure and transform objects of any size or shape with a mere gesture, without even a need for a wand. And now, it seemed, they were capable of drawing figures from the past forward to the present time, as attested by the presence of the four Founders in the school. Quite amazing magic, Albus admitted to himself.

But that knowledge had been bound up inside him more tightly than any Fidelius Charm. He was able to tell no one that these people existed! And even though Minerva, as well as Severus Snape, had been brought in on the secret, they were bound by the same enchantment as he. Thus, they were mute witnesses to the amazing fact that Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff and Salazar Slytherin once again walked the halls of Hogwarts. No one else knew but Clara herself, and presumably Harry Potter as well, and they weren't telling anyone.

He turned to the woman on his left. "Have you had enough breakfast, Clara?" he gently inquired.

"Oh, oh yes," Clara nodded, patting her lips with a linen napkin. "I'm quite full, thank you. That was a marvelous breakfast, Albus!"

"I am glad you enjoyed it," Albus nodded. His deep blue eyes swept across the Great Hall — it was nearly empty now, as the Founders had left and taken all of the students with them. The other staff members had gone as well, most of them to monitor the activities of the four, at Albus's request. He had persuaded Clara to remain behind for now, to learn more about her. Fortunately, Clara was not nearly as secretive as Harry's Uncle Arthur had been. Which raised a question in Albus's mind —

"Tell me, Clara, are you related in any way to Harry's Uncle Arthur?"

Clara smiled. "Oh, yes. Arthur is my little brother."

"Ah," Albus smiled. "And Endora?"

"One of my younger sisters," Clara replied. "I have several, you know: Hagatha, Enchantra, Bertha. Hagatha runs a school as well. The others help her run it."

"Really?" Albus was quite interested to hear this. "Why didn't Harry attend her school?"

"Well, Harry, he-he wanted," Clara hesitated. "That is, he decided he — er, actually, I don't know," she admitted. "Wasn't it something about his parents attending this school? Yes, I think that was it."

"Perhaps he didn't meet the requirements for the other school," Snape, further down the table, suggested in a flat tone.

"Oh, oh, he did," Clara turned to face him. "Hagatha was quite excited about him attending her school, especially since Tabitha decided not to send her daughter Electra there. Harry would have been the first child from our family to attend her school in quite some time."

Albus glanced toward a spot next to Clara, to the wizard who was standing there, Disillusioned, listening carefully to her every word. While _he_ couldn't say anything to give away the existence of witches and warlocks, he hoped his questioning of Clara would provide some evidence for them.

"How long has your sister been running her school?" McGonagall asked.

"Oh dear," Clara rubbed the side of her head, trying to remember. "Quite — _quite_ some time, I should say. She had Arthur attend when he was old enough to start exhibiting wishcraft."

Albus and Minerva glanced at one another. Had Clara said _witchcraft_ or _wishcraft_? "I would like to hear more about this school, Clara —"

"Oh, plenty of time for that," Clara said, waving off the request. "For now, I'm a little tired from being up all night with my friends. If you'll excuse me —" She stood up abruptly from the table, faster than a woman of her apparent age would normally be capable of, and seemed to bump into something. "Oh!—pardon me, young man. I didn't see you there. Well, I'll see you all later," she said, stepping around the wizard and waving at them as she walked out the door to the antechamber.

After she was gone Dumbledore said quietly, "What do you think of her, Remus?"

Remus Lupin canceled his Disillusionment Charm, becoming visible. He held a clipboard with parchment notes and a self-inking quill. "A very interesting woman, Albus," he said, with a nod of greeting toward McGonagall and Snape. McGonagall returned the nod, Snape did not. "I can see why you wanted me to observe her once you learned she was here."

"What do you think of her four friends?" McGonagall asked.

Lupin smiled wryly. "They're certainly done up very convincingly as the Founders, I'll give them that. They may be a little overdone, if you ask me. Albus, did you loan the Sword of Gryffindor to the one playing Godric Gryffindor?"

"No," Albus replied. "That is his own sword."

"It's an amazing replica," Remus mused. "As is the diadem that Rowena is wearing, even if no one has seen the actual Ravenclaw diadem in centuries." Remus gave Dumbledore a penetrating look. "I do wish you'd tell me what all this is about, Albus."

"I wish you to draw your own conclusions, Remus —"

"Yes, yes," Remus waved off further explanations he'd heard before. "But my investigation of the Stephens woman and her family a few months ago, after she somehow became Harry Potter's guardian and spirited him off to America, his subsequent attendance of Hogwarts, and now these goings-on with his Aunt Clara as some kind of tutor, it's all very irregular —"

"Perhaps," Snape interrupted, his tone biting, "if you were more observant of Potter's activities and less vocal in questioning _us_ , you would learn more about these 'goings-on,' as you put it."

"You haven't changed much in 20 years, Severus," Lupin said to him, his tone mild. "Still acerbic as ever."

"Perhaps I simply refuse to suffer fools gladly," Snape retorted.

"That's enough," McGonagall snapped, irritated that after 20 years she still had to break up Snape and Lupin's verbal jousting. "Remus, please concentrate on your task. And Professor Snape, please give Mr. Lupin the same courtesy you require that everyone show to _you_ , if you please." If Snape felt rebuffed, he merely inclined his head momentarily and remained silent.

"Thank you, Professor McGonagall," Lupin said formally. "Well, I did find it interesting that 'Aunt Clara' as you call her, managed to see through my Disillusionment Charm. She is quite a powerful witch to be able to do that — at least as powerful as Albus himself. I will continue to observe her as much as I can."

"Very good," Dumbledore nodded. He hoped Remus would be able to put everything together and come to the conclusion that there were more powerful beings among them than anyone knew. What he and wizard-kind might be able to learn from them could be of vital importance, especially since he, and now Severus as well, knew Voldemort's secret — that even though he was bound up in the body of Quirinus Quirrell, now frozen, shrunken, bottled and hidden in his office, seemingly effectively cut off forever from the world, they would never be truly free of his threat until all of his Horcruxes were found and eliminated. Only then could Voldemort be permanently dealt with. It was Dumbledore's hope that with the witchcraft that people like Samantha Stephens, her mother Endora, and Clara could perform, they could help him rid the world of the Dark Lord's menace. But until he had the leverage he needed to make them help him, he was powerless.

Albus stood. "I will be in my office, working, if I am needed," he said. "Please carry on with your duties." He strode from the Great Hall, returning to the corridor where the gray stone gargoyle stood guard over the entrance to his office. "Lemon sherbert," he said to the gargoyle, the password he had given it just this morning as he left.

But the gargoyle didn't move. "Did you know the Master has returned?" it asked him.

"I know," Dumbledore said, wearily. "Now let me pass, please."

The gargoyle still refused to budge. "Has he returned for good? When do you plan to step aside so he can become Headmaster again?"

"That will not happen," Dumbledore retorted testily. "He will not be staying."

"How do _you_ know that? You are not a Founder!"

"I am not," Dumbledore agreed. "But I _am_ the Headmaster, and your allegiance should be to me. The Founders have been dead for centuries."

"It appears you are mistaken," the gargoyle said, craftily. "For they _are_ the Founders, and they are the true owners of Hogwarts!" The gargoyle crossed its stone arms across its chest. "I shall not allow you into the Headmaster's office until they either give their permission for you to enter, or they return from whence they came."

Dumbledore stared at the gargoyle for several seconds in frank amazement, then groaned softly. "I'm getting too old for this shit."


	14. When Evil Calls Your Name

.

 **Chapter Fourteen**

 **When Evil Calls Your Name**

 _Updated_ 1/30/2016

 **=ooo=**

Gilderoy Lockhart strode quickly down the corridor leading to his personal quarters, his wand drawn. Reaching the door, he canceled a number of spells that protected the entrance, then slipped inside and secured the door behind him. Only then did he allow himself a growl of frustration and anger at the morning's activities.

Curse that old woman and those four fools pretending to be the Founders of this school! As if _anyone_ could be the embodiment of those four revered persons, especially Salazar Slytherin! Now the school was in chaos, with classes canceled for the day and students roaming the halls without regard for order or discipline! This looked to greatly disrupt his plans for the day.

Lockhart threw himself into a chair, brooding. What should he do? With all of the students seemingly enthralled by the presence of the "Founders," his plans were in jeopardy. Without thinking, his hand strayed to the lining of his robe, where he had secreted the book the mudblood girl had brought to him, unwittingly making it possible for him to return to the world of the living through the vessel he now possessed, the fool Gilderoy Lockhart. Tom Riddle smiled broadly, thinking how the man had Obliviated the girl and sent her away, keeping the book that bore his consciousness within. And, fool that he was, Lockhart immediately began writing in the book, asking how it could be that a mere Muggle diary could communicate with wizards. Tom had answered him at length, drawing Lockhart into his web of deceit, until he was able to reach out and take the man's body from him, trapping his soul within the book. Soon, very soon, all of what he was would be in this foppish body, and all that had been Gilderoy Lockhart would be trapped in the book, forever.

There was a light knock on the door, and Tom broke out of his reverie. "Who is it?" he asked, modulating his tone to sound more like Lockhart's vacuous joviality.

"It's — it's Hermione Granger, sir," a young girl's voice replied, and Tom gave a nod of triumph. So the mudblood _had_ managed to break away from those pretenders! "I — I remembered you wanted to speak to me this morning before classes began, but we were called to attend breakfast this morning and there was the announcement about our visitors and then classes were canceled, I went to your office but you weren't there so I came here to apologize for not meeting you earlier and to see what you wanted to talk with me about." She managed to say all of that in a single breath.

The door opened and Professor Lockhart was there, smiling at her. "Quite all right, my dear," he said, opening the door so she could enter. "I understand your interest in the Founders, even if they are only being portrayed by actors pretending to be them."

"Oh, they're —" Hermione caught herself, but Tom saw in her eyes that she somehow believed they were the real Founders. What a strange notion! Why would she think such a thing? But the mudblood was staring at the floor now, avoiding eye contact. "What I mean is," she went on. "They are doing a very good job of portraying them, and they seem to know a lot about the Founders. It's been very interesting, listening to them."

"Why did you leave them?" Lockhart asked.

Hermione smiled shyly. "Well, I did promise to meet you this morning, Professor, and I like to keep my promises."

"Very good," Lockhart nodded. "In that case, Miss Granger, I have a few things for you to do for me today. Are you interested?"

"Of course," Hermione said, eagerly. "What do you need me to do for you?"

Lockhart gestured toward a pair of chairs facing one another. "Sit down, my dear, and I shall explain them to you." Smiling expectantly, Hermione sat in the chair facing the Defense professor, waiting for him to say what he wanted done.

 **=ooo=**

After the meeting in the Great Hall broke up, the Founders had each requested a tour of the school, beginning with the common room of their House. It was decided that each Founder would see the school separately, returning to the Great Hall at noon for the midday meal and to compare notes.

Godric Gryffindor marched boldly through the halls of the school, led by his self-appointed guide, the seventh-year male prefect, Stuart Townsby, who was pointing out items of interest as they walked: suits of armor worn by knights in the 14th and 15th centuries; portraits of famous Gryffindors such as Gifford Ollerton, the famous giant slayer, and Bowman Wright, the wizard who invented the Golden Snitch.

Gryffindor nodded and grunted as these things were pointed out, which Townsby seem to take as encouragement but which Harry thought was expressing boredom or impatience. "This bloke's worse'n my brother," Ron whispered to him as they followed in the rear of the crowd. Harry nodded in commiserating agreement.

On the seventh floor the group stopped in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, who was giving Gryffindor a bemused look. "Are you supposed to be Godric Gryffindor?" she asked him.

"Not only 'supposed to be,' fair lady," Gryffindor answered. "I am that worthy fellow, indeed. Do you not recognize me? I remember the very day I hung you there, to guard those under my charge."

"I remember that day," the Lady retorted, coldness in her tone. "But I very much doubt it was _you_ who put me here. That was so long ago, and you look to be nowhere near a thousand years of age."

"Looks can be deceiving," Gryffindor answered shrewdly. "Do you remember these words?

 _Æbære, hlæfdige fæger,  
_ _Giefan we instæpe._

The Fat Lady stared at him, clearly surprised. "I have not heard those words in centuries," she breathed. "My good master, you are indeed granted entrance!"

The portrait swung open. The Gryffindors gathered there looked at one another in surprise. It was the first time many of them had seen the Fat Lady open without being given a password first. Gryffindor stepped through the portrait hole, followed by those with him.

Harry and Ron were in the back, waiting their turn through the hole, when Fred and George were suddenly beside them. "So who is this bloke?" Fred asked Harry. "He's doing a pretty damned good imitation of Godric Gryffindor, if you ask me."

"I think that's just what he's doing," Harry replied. "He's imitating Gryffindor. I guess he knows his stuff."

"Sure," George said, eying Harry closely. He suddenly turned to Ron. "What do _you_ know about this, little brother?" Both Fred and George stared expectantly at him.

"Me?" Ron looked back with totally unconvincing wide-eyed innocence. "What're you asking _me_ for?"

"Because you're best mates with Harry Potter and a lot of weird stuff's been happening around him since school started," Fred pointed out. "You know something. You know, and we know you know. So spill."

Ron shrugged and grinned crookedly at his brothers. "I know nuzzin'!" he said, imitating the French accent of his hero, Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle. "Nuzzink et oll!"

"A likely story," Fred snorted. "Okay, play dumb then, ickle Ronnikins. We know how good you are at it. But we'll be watching you." He and George turned and climbed through the portrait hole, leaving Harry and Ron the last two to enter. Ron and Harry exchanged glances of relief, then followed them inside.

Gryffindor was looking around the large, circular common room, at the portraits and tapestries hung on the walls, the comfortable chairs and divans scattered around the room, and the tables for studying. There was a warm, crackling fire going in the fireplace. "It appears comfortable," he said, his deep, resonant voice filling the room. "But where are the sleeping cots?"

"You mean our beds, sir?" Stuart Townsby asked. "Our dorms are in the towers — boys are up that staircase. Girls go up that one over there."

Gryffindor frowned. "You allow boys and girls to sleep in such close proximity? Are you daft? What about their honor?"

"Oh, it's perfectly safe, sir!" the fifth-year female prefect, Adelia Orrins, spoke up. "Boys cannot go up to the girls rooms — the stairs become smooth and slippery if any of them try."

"Mmph," Gryffindor grunted. "Seems like little protection. How many of you live here?"

"Well, let's see," Stuart began counting off students in his head. "There are… 41 boys and 37 girls in Gryffindor this year. In the whole school…um, I don't quite remember—"

"One hundred and fifty-seven boys and two hundred and three girls all together," Adelia broke in, smiling smugly at Townsby.

"That many," Gryffindor murmured. "'Tis many more than I expected. We only taught a few dozen students in the school in my days here. Things have gotten better over time!"

He clapped his gloved hands and smiled bracingly. "I should like to see where your Battle Magic class is held."

Townsby and Orrins exchanged confused glances. "The _what_ class?" Townsby asked.

"Battle Magic," Gryffindor repeated, frowning. "Do you not learn how to defend yourself against enemies? I should like to meet the instructor."

"Oh! You mean Defense Against the Dark Arts," Townsby said, relieved that he finally understood. Then he thought about who their current Defense professor was. "Er, I don't know where Professor Lockhart is right now…"

"No matter," Gryffindor waved dismissively. "I wish to see the grounds where your battle mages drill. Take me there." He gestured toward the common room's exit, an expectant expression on his red-framed face.

Both Townsby and Orrin looked lost. "Come on, Stuart," Fred Weasley spoke up. "Let's go see where the battle mages drill."

Townsby gave him a dark look. "Maybe you want to show him where it is, Weasley?" he shot back.

"If you insist," George said. "Follow us." He and Fred led the group out of the common room until Harry and Ron were the last ones to exit the portrait hole. As they were climbing out, they met Professor McGonagall coming up the corridor from the opposite direction the group was leaving in. "Where is everyone going?" McGonagall asked Harry.

"To where the battle mages drill," Harry said blandly.

McGonagall blanched. "Where do they think _that_ is?"

"No idea," Harry shrugged. "But given that Fred and George are leading them there —"

"— could be anywhere," Ron finished.

"I'd better follow, then, to make sure there's no trouble," McGonagall decided, starting after the departing group.

"Before you go, Professor," Harry interrupted. "Can we decide on a time I can come by your office to pick up my Invisibility Cloak?"

McGonagall gave him an odd look. "What do you mean, Mr. Potter? You picked up your Cloak from my office Thursday afternoon, after your classes."

"No, I didn't," Harry shook his head, confused. "I showed up but you weren't there."

McGonagall frowned. "What are you playing at, Mr. Potter? You were there at 3:52 — I remember the precise time because it seemed too soon for you to have come from your Flying class to my office. You were in quite a hurry, as I recall. I had a four o'clock staff meeting to attend so I left immediately after you did."

"That wasn't me, Professor," Harry said firmly. "I think someone tricked you and stole my Cloak."

Who could have done it? Harry wondered. Not that many people even _knew_ about his Cloak of Invisibility — McGonagall did, obviously, and so did Ron and Hermione, but neither of his friends had a reason to steal the Cloak, much less a way to impersonate him. Or did they?

Harry glanced at Ron, standing next to him. Ron expression was one of surprise — he seemed genuinely shocked that Harry's cloak had been stolen. Hermione seemed an unlikely suspect as well, which left only a couple of possibilities in Harry's mind. "Ron, did you tell Fred and George about the Cloak?"

"What? No!" Ron said, getting angry. "They wouldn't do something like that, Harry!"

"So they did know I had that Cloak, right?" Harry pressed.

"Well… yeah," Ron admitted. "I might have mentioned something about it to them, sometime. But other people knew about it too, didn't they?"

"Like who?" Harry wondered. "Who else have you told about it?"

"Nobody!" Ron replied, adamantly. "Er… well, I did talk to Lavender a week or so ago about how we went into the third floor corridor a few weeks back, and I _might_ have mentioned you had that Cloak."

"Great," Harry sighed. "So the whole school likely knows about it by now."

"Sorry, Harry," Ron murmured contritely. "I didn't think it was a big deal."

"Don't worry about it," Harry decided. If push came to shove he could probably summon the Cloak to him with a spell. "I'm sure we can find it," he said aloud.

Ron nodded, though he looked dubious. "I hope so."

"If you'll excuse me, then, I need to see where your brothers are leading Godric Gryffindor," McGonagall said, turning and hurrying away.

Ron watched her leave. "Does McGonagall think those are the real Founders, then?" he asked Harry.

Harry nodded. "She knows I'm a warlock. So does Dumbledore and Snape, but they've all got spells on them that keep them from saying anything to anyone who doesn't already know."

"Huh. What about Hermione?" Ron wondered. "Has she got a spell on her, too?"

"No," Harry told him. "I'm trusting both you and her not to tell anyone."

Ron beamed at him. "I appreciate that, Harry. Thanks for trusting me!" His smile faded. "So what do we do about your Cloak? How do we figure out who's got it?"

Harry had been thinking about that for the past few minutes now. "We may not have to," he decided. "One way or another, the person who stole my cloak will probably come to me."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

But Harry didn't answer. "Come on," he said instead. "Let's see if we can find Hermione. I have a few questions for her." They set off down the corridor.

 **=ooo=**

After Harry and Ron had gone there was a rustling in a corner of the corridor and Draco Malfoy's head appeared, looking around. "Everyone's gone," he whispered. Crabbe and Goyle's heads appeared next to him. "Go on," Draco said to Goyle. "Give the password."

Goyle didn't look pleased. "Why don't we stay under the Cloak?" he whined. "That way none of us can be identified!"

"If she doesn't see anybody give the password why would she open in the first place?" Draco pointed out. "Don't worry, if you've got the password that's all that matters — she probably won't even remember you." Which Draco knew probably wasn't true, but better for Crabbe or Goyle to take the fall if something went wrong than him!

"Whatever," Goyle grumbled. He stepped in front of the Fat Lady's portrait. "Founders Four," he said to her.

The Fat Lady gave him a suspicious look. "I don't recognize you," she said, warily. "Who are you?"

"A friend gave me the password so I could come see him," Goyle lied. Actually, they'd been standing in the corner for some time, waiting to hear the current password.

"Well, I don't know," the Fat Lady dithered, unsure of whether to open or not. But the correct password had been given, so she had little choice. The portrait swung open. Goyle glanced back to where Draco and Crabbe were watching, then climbed through. They followed right behind him, and the portrait swung shut.

The Gryffindor common room was empty — fortunately for Goyle, for he probably would have been instantly recognized and thrown out. But that had been part of Draco's plan; he and Crabbe would have remained inside, invisible under the Cloak and able to continue their mission. He slipped back under the silvery material and the three of them looked around the room, trying to figure out where to go next. There were two staircases in the room, one on the right and one on the left.

Draco pointed to the one on the right. "Let's try that one."

They shuffled over to the staircase and started up, the three of them stepping carefully at the same to make sure they stayed under the Cloak. On the third step up, however, the steps suddenly disappeared and they all fell and slid down the incline to the common room floor.

The three scrambled to their feet and recovered themselves with the Cloak. "Let's try the other one," Draco said matter-of-factly.

"Ya think?" Crabbe muttered. "What if it does the same thing?"

"We'll figure that out if it happens," Draco snapped. "Now _shush_!"

Going up the steps, the first door they came to was marked, "7th Years." They continued up the spiraling staircase until they came to the last door, marked "1st years."

"What if someone's inside?" Goyle asked.

"They'll probably think it's Potter," Draco speculated. " _If_ they even notice." He turned the handle gently, pushing the door open slowly, just enough to let them slip inside.

The dorm appeared empty. The bed curtains on all the beds were open, with nobody in them except for one bed. The occupant was a fat gray rat that was asleep on the pillow. Goyle grimaced and rubbed his finger, the one the rat had bitten back on the Hogwarts Express when they first came here. "We better watch out for that bloody rat," he muttered.

"Aww," Crabbe cooed in false sympathy. "Don't worry, ickle Greggie—if the big bad rat attacks you again we'll protect you."

"Shut it," Goyle grumbled. "That bite hurt!"

"Quiet," Malfoy hissed. "We need to search Potter's bed and find that book, if it's here." He took the Cloak off of them and stuffed it into a pocket in his robes. The thing was amazingly light and could be folded up into a very small bundle. Once again, Malfoy congratulated himself for seizing the opportunity to use the vial of Polyjuice Potion he'd brought with him to school. "Crabbe, you lock the door. Goyle, check the bathroom to see if anyone's in there. I'll figure out which bed is Potter's."

"Won't be hard," Crabbe said, pointing to the footboard of the nearest bed, which had a bronze plaque with the name "R. WEASLEY" engraved on it. Draco turned, reading the names on the other beds in order: D. THOMAS, S. FINNIGAN, N. LONGBOTTOM, and H. POTTER.

"Fine," Draco said, sneering to hide his annoyance that Crabbe saw the names before he did. "I'll look for the book."

"Right," Crabbe said, barely keeping his smug chuckle to himself. He went to lock the door room door.

Draco looked under the pillows, searched under the edges of the mattress — all of the normal hiding places someone like Potter would probably think of. Coming up empty, he looked under the bed and came up with a small suitcase. Unlike the other beds, there was no trunk at the foot of Potter's bed, so all of the stuff he brought must be in here.

Draco was still staring at the suitcase when Crabbe and Goyle joined him beside the bed. All three of them looked at it. Finally—

"Did you try to open it?" Goyle asked.

"Of course not," Draco snapped. "It's probably warded to keep out people snooping. It might even let Potter know if someone tries to get inside."

"You think he's that good?" Crabbe wondered.

"I think his _uncle's_ that good," Draco retorted. "You saw what kind of magic _he_ could do." He reached in his pocket and drew out a small object that looked like a C with a crooked top and bottom. "This rune sigil will absorb any wards or protections on the suitcase. Then, after we have a look inside, I can return the wards to the suitcase by reversing the spell." He placed the sigil on the suitcase, took out his wand and tapped the rune. " _Incepto_!"

There was a bright flash that made all three of them gasp and cover their eyes, blinking dazzle out of them. "A little warning next time!" Crabbe grunted, rubbing his eyes.

"It never did _that_ before," Draco said, blinking furiously. "Usually it just glows for a moment." He reached for the sigil but pulled his hand back. "Dammit, it's hot! This suitcase must've had a hell of a ward on it!" He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped the sigil with it, setting it aside on the bed. "Now, how does this thing open?"

They studied the suitcase for several seconds, then Crabbe reached down and pushed on a button next to a clasp. The clasp sprung open. Goyle did the same with the other button, and the lid of the suitcase popped open. The three looked eagerly inside.

The suitcase was empty.

"Dammit," Draco swore. "Potter must be hiding his stuff somewhere else!" He slammed the case shut. "We better get out of here — Potter might know someone was looking through his stuff!" He took the sigil out of his handkerchief (it was still hot to the touch), put it on the suitcase and tapped it again. " _Peracto_!" he said, covering his eyes this time. But there was no flash. Draco grabbed the sigil, dropping it in his pocket, and slipped the case back under the bed.

"Thanks for warning us," Crabbe said sarcastically as Draco pulled out the Cloak and they got beneath it.

"Nothing happened that time, did it?" Draco shot back. Crabbe unlocked the door and the three hurried down the steps and out of the Gryffindor common room.

Perched on Ron's pillow, Scabbers watched the three Slytherins leave, wondering what they had been looking for. After a few moments he recalled Harry and Ron talking about a book Harry had found and the Granger girl had borrowed. Malfoy had mentioned a book as well. But how would Malfoy know about that book? Perhaps Potter had told him? Maybe. But if that were so, however, why had Malfoy come _here_ trying to steal it? There must be something unusual about that book, Scabbers decided. He'd thought about trying to stop them getting into Potter's stuff, but as a rat he was no match for three boys. The only reason he'd attacked the one on the train was that they'd woken him from a sound sleep! He could have turned into his human form, but there were probably wards in the castle to alert the Headmaster of someone bearing a Dark Mark. He didn't want to chance being found out now, not when he was close to freeing the Dark Lord from Dumbledore's clutches.

Perhaps the Granger girl still had the book, or knew where it was, he considered. And perhaps that book contained important information about the Dark Lord, information that could be used to help him in some way. He might have to find out whether the girls' staircase would permit a male rat to climb the steps or not. Scabbers settled back to sleep, smiling a little rat smile of anticipation at the gratitude he'd receive from the Dark Lord for freeing him.

 **=ooo=**

Midday arrived, and most of the school converged in the Great Hall as the Founders returned to discuss what each of them had seen and heard during their respective tours. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin were seated on either side of the Headmaster; Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were on Dumbledore's right while Ravenclaw and Slytherin sat on his left. All of the other places at the High Table were filled as well — even Hagrid was there, as well as some other teachers that rarely attended meals.

The four House tables were packed with students who'd either followed one of the Founders around, who were interested in hearing what they had to say about the school, along with a smattering of students who were simply hungry and waiting for something to eat. Harry and Ron had managed to get places at the Gryffindor table near the High Table, places normally taken by upperclassmen, due to Harry's relation to Aunt Clara, the person who had arranged for the four to be there. Aunt Clara herself was not at the High Table, however; Harry suspected she was resting after a busy evening and morning. He and Ron had saved a spot for Hermione as well, but she was nowhere to be seen, either, a development that left Harry a little troubled. Normally she wouldn't have missed an occasion like this for anything short of a book signing by Gilderoy Lockhart.

"I am pleased to see all of you have returned to hear what our four friends think about what they've seen and heard since they've come here," Dumbledore was saying. "I am sure all of us are interested in hearing what they have to say."

"Like anyone cares what four actors think of Hogwarts," a sixth-year sitting across from Harry muttered to a friend sitting next to him. "Who cares that some loony old witch got four of her friends to play dress-up?"

Annoyed, Harry made a subtle gesture with one finger. The chair the sixth-year was sitting on suddenly collapsed, sending him crashing to the floor, momentarily disrupting the meeting. There was a scramble as the sixth-year's friend picked him up and repaired the chair he'd been sitting on, then got the sixth-year to sit back down. Ron glanced toward Harry with a knowing smirk; Harry's expression was one of surprised innocence.

"Ahem," Dumbledore continued as the commotion at the Gryffindor table died down. "Let us first hear from brave Gryffindor — what do you think of how the school has progressed in the past thousand years?"

Godric Gryffindor stood, looking first at the tables filled with students, then towards his fellow Founders. "There have been many changes wrought over the centuries," he intoned. "Many more students attend Hogwarts now than ever did when I and my companions walked these halls. That is good. I am gratified to see that wizard-kind has grown and progressed in the past millennia.

"Yet, I am troubled by other things I have seen," Gryffindor went on. "Much of the old ways have been discarded, and many of the students here seem soft and weak compared to those I taught in my day. When I asked to be shown the fields where Battle Magic is practiced, I was instead taken to a 'Quidditch pitch,' a place where _games_ are played! Is this what has happened to us in the past thousand years? Have we forgotten how to defend ourselves against those who seek to do us harm?" There were murmurs and whispered comments from the House tables as the students digested this.

"This is what I warned you about, Godric," Slytherin spoke up. "This is what comes of allowing those with impure blood to learn our ways and infect our kind's blood purity!" Several students at the Slytherin table began applauding, but it quickly died down when none of the other tables followed suit.

"You are not still harping on that blood purity nonsense?" Helga Hufflepuff sniffed. "Ancestry has no bearing on magical power!"

"No?" Slytherin challenged. "Then perhaps you will show us your ability to speak with snakes, dear Helga?" Slytherin gestured with the wand that was suddenly in his hand, saying " _Serpensortia_!" A large snake exploded from the end of Slytherin's wand, landing in front of Hufflepuff. "Tell it not to attack you," he suggested, as the snaked raised itself in the air, poised to strike. " _If_ you can, that is."

The entire Hall was silent, watching in fascinated horror as the woman and the snake stared at one another. Helga's hand moved slowly to her robe, to draw her wand, when a strange hissing sound issued from Slytherin's mouth. " _Do not attack her. Go, leave this place_ ," Harry heard him say, and the snake slithered off the High Table and across the Hall to the entrance, which opened at its approach. As the snake disappeared through the doors, the Hall broke out in dozens of conversations about what had just happened.

"That was uncalled for, Salazar," Rowena, sitting next to him, said. "The fact that you are a Parselmouth does not prove your ideas on blood purity."

"It doesn't disprove them, either," Salazar replied, smiling silkily. "And in fact nearly all of the students in my House are pure-bloods; many of their families are quite successful and well-known in the wizarding community. One of them, Draco Malfoy, has a father who is a member of the Wizengamot, the ruling council of wizards in England today."

"Most Houses have a family in the Wizengamot," Gryffindor retorted. "That proves nothing."

"Ah, but I discovered that there are _no_ families in House Gryffindor that are in the Wizengamot," Slytherin pointed out. "One might have expected there would be _many_ among the so-called 'valiant' House."

Gryffindor grunted angrily, and Harry sensed there was about to be a breakdown in communication. Dumbledore sat placidly between them, making no effort to calm down either man. If Aunt Clara were here she could probably get them back in line, but she _wasn't_ here. He jumped to his feet.

"Hold on a minute!" he said, waving his arms to get their attention. "You don't need to fight about this!"

Slytherin gave Harry a haughty look. "Who said we were about to fight, boy?"

Gryffindor was frowning at him as well. "Stay out of this, it's none of your concern!"

Harry stood his ground. "I'd say it is. My Aunt Clara didn't bring you here so you could argue with one another! Even if you disagree about what's best for the school, you don't have to scare one another with _snakes_ to get your point across! I thought the whole point of Hogwarts was to bring witches and witches together to work with one another! Why you decided to divide the school into Houses is beyond me — it seems like you set everything up for competition, not cooperation!"

The entire Hall was silent for several seconds. Finally Rowena Ravenclaw spoke. "The boy may be right. We each wanted to teach students according to the qualities we held most dear in a wizard, yet now I have beheld rivalries that never should have come about — my own House thinks the others less intelligent, and therefore less deserving. Salazar's House members seem contemptuous of all others, and even those in Helga's house think the other Houses are unworthy of their complete trust. That was not our intent."

"Nay, it wasn't," Gryffindor agreed, heavily. "Perhaps 'twere best if we abolished the Houses."

The Hall erupted in protest. "You can't do that!" students from all four Houses were shouting, as were many of the teachers.

"Of course we can!" Gryffindor rumbled. "We are the Founders! We decide the course for this school!"

Dumbledore was at last on his feet, trying to restore order. "Everyone please sit down!" he said loudly, again and again. At last the tumult died down and everyone returned to their chairs, though murmurs of protest still reverberated through the Hall. _That_ was something the old wizard never expected, Harry grinned.

When silence was at last restored, Dumbledore spoke. "While I…appreciate the insight of our four friends into the Hogwarts House system, at this point in time I believe it would be inadvisable to dissolve the House system. It has become a time-honored tradition here at Hogwarts, and many great witches and wizards have come from all four Houses. We hope and expect that Hogwarts will continue to produce many extraordinary people."

"I am sure it will," Ravenclaw answered, before Gryffindor could speak. "But perhaps not for the reasons you envision. While I am sure you are a very intelligent man, Headmaster, your unwillingness to discard traditions that have not worked in the best interest of the school does not speak well of you. Perhaps we should not be the voices of Hogwarts today, as our minds are a thousand years in the past, but perhaps _you_ should not be, either."

 _Ouch_ , thought Harry. The truth hurts, doesn't it?

As Dumbledore stared at her, speechless, Ravenclaw turned to her three co-Founders. "I believe it is time for us to depart, friends. This sojourn into our own futures has come to the end of its usefulness."

There were protests among the students asking them not to leave, but —

"I believe you are right, Rowena," Helga agreed. "We need not stay here and quibble over things that will make no difference to our lives. Better for us to concern ourselves with what matters in our own times."

"Yet we have learned many interesting things, have we not?" Slytherin spoke up. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Yes, _many_ interesting things."

"Be that as it may," Gryffindor stated firmly. "I agree — it is time for us to depart." He looked around the room. "Where is Clara?"

Dumbledore smiled. "If you wish to depart, friends, please do so with our gratitude and our blessings. _Unless_ ," he added carefully, "you require Clara to help you in some way."

"Nuts," Harry muttered under his breath. "Well, here goes nothing —" Before Gryffindor could reply, he made a sweeping gesture to include the entire room. Everyone in the Great Hall froze except for him and Ron.

Ron looked around, his mouth agape. "Merlin's pants, Harry!" he exclaimed as he realized no one was moving but them. "What did you _do_?"

"I put a time stop on everyone in the room," Harry said, panting a little. It was a strain — he'd never cast the spell this widely before, including several hundred people in its effect. "Aunt Clara?" he said loudly, looking upwards. Ron looked up as well, wondering why Harry was talking to the ceiling. "The Founders are ready to go back. Can you come take care of that?"

Clara appeared wearing a nightgown and cap. "Wh-wh-what time is it?" she asked foggily, blinking and looking around as if she'd just woken up. "I was having a little lie down," she explained to Harry, then caught sight of Ron staring at her. "Oh, pardon me," she said, embarrassed. He clothes changed into her familiar black dress and pearls. "That's better," she said to herself. "Now, Harry, what can I do for you?"

"The Founders have decided to go back," Harry said again, indicating the four frozen figures.

"They have?" Clara looked surprised. "But-but we haven't even had a chance to have dinner together! What are they thinking?"

"I think they realized it's not a good idea for them to be here," Harry said, gently. "The whole school's been on hold since they were introduced this morning, and the Headmaster has been trying to figure out a way to use them to expose you and me."

"He has?" Clara looked shocked. "Well, I never!"

Endora appeared. "Clara, stop dawdling and send them back!"

"Oh, very well," Clara muttered, disappointed her friends had to leave so soon. "I just wish we had a little more time together." She raised her hands and began the counterspell:

 _Ear of toad, heart of gold,  
_ _Harken back to days of old!  
_ _Eldritch forces, powers mine,  
_ _Send these four back to their time!_

The four Founders vanished in a flash and puff of smoke, which quickly dissipated.

"There, now," Endora said, satisfied. "From now on, Clara, stick to teaching rather than dragging people out of the past. And by the way, Harry," she added. "Very nice job freezing everyone in the room." She glanced at Ron. " _Almost_ everybody," she added, with a significant look at Harry.

"Ron's my best friend," Harry said defensively. "He's got a right to know about me."

"I'm not saying a word," Endora pointed out. She pointed a finger at Ron. "Except to remind _you_ , young man: not a word about us to anyone! Do you understand?" Ron nodded, too intimidated to even speak.

"Good." Endora leaned toward Harry. "Now give your Aunt Endora a kiss goodbye." Harry sighed under his breath and kissed Endora on the cheek while Ron grinned at him.

"Goodbye, Endora," Clara said, leaning toward her younger sister for a kiss as well.

"Goodbye, Clara," Endora said, vanishing before Clara could kiss her. "Well — oh, well, she must've been in a hurry," Clara muttered where her lips touched empty air. She looked around the room at the frozen students and staff. "What-what do we do now?"

Endora's voice came through the air. "I've removed everyone's memories of your visitors," she said. "It's as if none of it ever happened."

Ron looked at Harry. "Well, _that's_ convenient," he said, shrugging. "I guess we can eat, now." He sat down at the Gryffindor table as people started to move again.

Harry looked around the Great Hall. People were looking around in confusion, as if they wondered how they got there. Professor Dumbledore was looking around, confused. Aunt Clara, standing next to him, nodded as if he'd just greeted her, then walked back to the High Table and sat down next to Professor McGonagall, who began a conversation with her. The other teachers seemed to take things in stride except for Hagrid, who stood and excused himself, saying he had chores to attend to. Harry finally sat down next to Ron and began filling his plate with food.

As he started to eat Hermione entered the Hall and sat down in the seat next to Harry, smiling at him. "Hello, Harry," she said pleasantly. "You look hungry today."

"Hi," Harry said, glancing at her. "Where've you been?"

"Oh," Hermione replied airily. "I was just doing a few things for Professor Lockhart," she smiled as the other girls within earshot at the table scowled at her jealously.

Ron was looking at her warily. "Things?" he asked. "What kind of things?"

"Oh," Hermione waved a hand casually in the air. "I was helping him arrange some of his Defense textbooks, and we discussed some lesson plans — not for first-years of course," she added, quickly. "Since that would give me an unfair advantage. We talked about Defense subjects for second and third-years to study. Professor Lockhart thinks I have a real gift for teaching."

" _And_ a gift for annoying," a girl's voice down the table muttered, though too softly for anyone but Harry to hear.

"I think it's creepy Professor Lockhart is alone with you in his office," Ron grumbled, glaring at Hermione. "Don't you think that's creepy?"

"My, aren't you jealous, Ronald Weasley!" Hermione accused. Ron flinched as she said this — so did Harry, a bit. That accusation might have hit closer to home for him than it did Ron.

"Jealous?" Ron looked astounded. "Of you hanging about with some stuck-up, poncy git who spends more on hair gel than he does on school books! You must be joking!"

Things were getting loud between Ron and Hermione. "No need to get upset," Harry said to both of them. "It's not that big a deal, Ron —"

"Oh, come _on_ , Harry!" Ron exploded. "You don't like this any better than I do! Hermione's been gah-gah over the manky bloke since he arrived here! So have most of the girls here! But you and both know he's nothing but a —"

"A what, Mr. Weasley?" Ron cringed at the sound of that annoyingly familiar voice. Gilderoy Lockhart was standing behind him and Harry. His expression was not the usual banal toothy smile he'd greeted them with most days in his class, but a cool, calculating stare that made Ron's stomach hurt. "Well, Mr. Weasley?" Lockhart continued, in a measured voice that sounded nothing like the irritatingly chipper tone he'd used since arriving two weeks ago. "You were saying?"

"Ron just meant that you're supposed to be teaching _everyone_ , Professor," Harry said quickly, before Ron could open his mouth and shove his foot further down it. "Private lessons for individual students is not what Hogwarts professors do."

"I agree," Lockhart replied evenly. "That does seem to be _your_ purview, Mr. Potter." He pointed to the High Table, where Professor McGonagall, Aunt Clara and the other teachers had halted their conversations to watch the goings-on at the Gryffindor table. "But then, every student is allowed to ask questions of the teachers here, and we are allowed to answer them to the best of our ability. I see no reason for you or Mr. Weasley to regard my interaction with Miss Granger as 'creepy.' Or do you have any further explanation for such a characterization?"

"Er, no sir," Harry said. Ron shook his head mutely.

"Very good," Lockhart said, with a cold smile. "Miss Granger," he nodded at her, then turned and walked sedately to the double doors, which opened of their own accord at his approach and closed behind him.

Hermione, who'd been smiling after Lockhart as he left, turned and regarded Ron and Harry with a disapproving stare. "I hope you're both happy now," she huffed, then stood and moved down the table to where the other first-year girls were sitting.

"I'll be happy when Lockhart is out of here on his arse," Ron muttered, so upset that he actually pushed the rest of his plate away unfinished.

Sensing Ron needed some cheering up, Harry nudged him in the shoulder. "Come on," he whispered. "Let's go up to our room and play some wizard chess." Ron had been teaching Harry wizard chess for the past few weeks, ever since their encounter with the giant chess set while they were trying to catch Quirrell. Ron was always up for a game.

"Really?" Ron looked interested. Usually he was the one asking to play Harry. "Sure!" he nodded, and the two of them jumped up from the table and ran out of the Hall.

 **=ooo=**

In their dorm, Ron went right to his trunk and pulled out his chessboard, setting it on his bed. They opened it up and began setting up the pieces; Ron let Harry use his white pieces, admonishing them to listen to Harry this time and do what he said, no matter what they thought of the moves themselves. The pieces, knowing Harry was a novice, tended to offer their own advice while he contemplated a move.

They began a game, exchanging a few pawns early on in establishing their positions on the board. Harry had a lot less experience than Ron at chess, but he was a quick learner; a lot of things came more easily to him since he'd learned he was a warlock and Dr. Bombay's treatment had restored his magic to its rightful levels. He was already watching for the traps Ron liked to spring, and avoided the forks he kept trying to set up on Harry's pieces.

Scabbers, who'd been sleeping on the pillow, came down to watch the game, laying off to one side where the captured chessmen lay in pieces. After a few minutes he began squeaking at Harry.

"Settle down, Scabbers," Ron muttered. "We're trying to play chess."

But Harry was giving the rat a bemused expression. It had just spoken to him again. " _Mr. Potter, something happened this morning I think you should know about_ ," Scabbers had said.

"What?" Harry asked.

Ron looked up at him. "I was telling Scabbers we're trying to play chess."

Scabbers glanced at Ron, then turned back to Harry. " _Three boys came into this room earlier, the three boys who tried to take your candy on the train. They tried to get into the suitcase under your bed_."

"Scabbers!" Ron said sharply. All he was hearing was a lot of squeaking. "You're being rather noisy today. What's up with you?"

"Hold on, Ron," Harry told him. "He's trying to tell me something."

Ron looked surprised. "What? You mean you can _understand_ him?" Harry nodded. "Blimey! You mean you can talk to rats?"

"Most animals, actually," Harry said. "Go on, Scabbers. What happened next?"

" _They had some kind of magical device," Scabbers continued. "They used it to open the suitcase but there was nothing inside it. They were looking for a book. The blond boy covered them with an invisibility cloak when they left_."

"What's he saying?" Ron asked, when Scabbers finished squeaking.

"From what he said, it sounds like Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle snuck into our room," Harry said in an angry tone. "They were looking for a book in my suitcase and it sounds like Malfoy has my Invisibility Cloak! Well, that explains why McGonagall doesn't have it — Malfoy probably disguised himself as me and got it from her before I did!"

"Damn Slytherins!" Ron growled. He jumped off the bed, the chess game forgotten. "Let's go get it from them!"

Harry remained on the bed. "It's not going to be that simple, Ron," he said, grimly. "I can't just go down and accuse Malfoy of stealing my Cloak."

" _Course_ you can!" Ron declared. "You said Scabbers saw them!" Then he realized what he was saying. "Oh. I guess we can't say that, can we?"

"No," Harry shook his head. He glanced up at the picture frame over the door, but it was empty. Since Harry had discovered that the occupant of the picture, a fellow named Eodwin the Obscure, had been placed there to spy on them, he hadn't returned to his frame. That was a shame, because if _he'd_ witnessed Malfoy and Company sneaking into his room, he could have used him as a witness. "But I _will_ ask Malfoy what book he was looking for."

"Oh, yeah!" Ron agreed. "I wonder if that book was a _diary_?"

"That's what I wonder, too," Harry nodded. "I'd like to know why Malfoy thinks I have that book." He suddenly remembered. "Wait a minute. When we met them in the hallway a few days ago, Crabbe and I bumped into each other and I lost my book bag. Malfoy picked it up and handed it to me."

"Ah!" Ron saw the implication. "Maybe _Malfoy_ put that diary in your book bag, then! But what for?"

"If Malfoy planted that book on me, he probably knows," Harry guessed. "And if he knows, he _is_ going to tell me," he promised. "But we'll have to bide our time, wait for the right opportunity to get that out of him — sometime when his bodyguards aren't around."

"We shouldn't wait too long," Ron warned. "I'm starting to think there's something going on between Hermione and Lockhart, and that book's got something to do with it. It's probably cursed, you know."

"Maybe," Harry muttered. It was starting to make some kind of sense: if Malfoy put that book in his book bag, intending it to have some effect on him, but it did something to Hermione instead, who then brought the book to Lockhart, who then began acting more like a real teacher, then something was definitely wrong. And maybe evil as well.


	15. Secrets

Chapter Fifteen

Secrets

 _Updated_ 2/19/2016

 **=ooo=**

 _21 October 1991_  
 _12:25 p.m., Great Hall—_

Circumstances, however, conspired to keep Harry from confronting either Malfoy or Lockhart right away. The evening the Founders returned to their own time, Hermione told Harry that she had asked Lockhart about the book Harry and Ron kept pestering her about, and he knew nothing about it, on his honor as a member of the Order of Merlin.

When Harry tried to convince her that Lockhart was probably lying, she became upset, saying she would tell Dumbledore that Harry was trying to undermine Professor Lockhart's authority, and promised that if Professor Lockhart was forced to leave the school, she would leave as well. Harry, not wanting her to leave, gave in and promised he wouldn't try to get Lockhart tossed out of the school (at least, he'd added to himself, until he had more proof that Lockhart was doing something dicey). Meanwhile, Lockhart's sudden change in teaching paradigms had garnered him a lot of popularity with the students; he was now one of the most beloved professors on staff. His classes were now filled with practical lessons and relevant quizzes; even Fred and George had seemed won over by the "new" Lockhart. "I don't get it," Ron confided to Harry after a week of Lockhart's new teaching style. "They'd been planning to pull a big prank on Lockhart a few weeks ago — they were going to set off a load of fireworks in his classroom just as class started, but now they pretend they had nothing like that in mind." He shook his head. "They're really slipping."

In fact, Fred and George were getting to be a problem of their own for Harry and Ron, ever since they'd decided Harry was a "weirdness magnet" and began spying on them. As well as being two of the biggest pranksters in the school, Fred and George were wicked smart and very perceptive. They'd kept Harry and Ron on their toes with some of the stuff they'd done — they'd cast an enchantment on a spider that sent conversations in their dorm room directly to the twins. It had worked, too — for about a minute, until Ron saw the spider, shrieked in terror and Harry killed it. That's how he found out Ron was deathly afraid of spiders. He also detected the spell on the spider's body and traced it back to Fred and George. It was kind of disappointing, really — Harry liked Ron's brothers, and wanted to get along with them rather than have to avoid them.

And speaking of avoiding people, Draco Malfoy was now avoiding Harry in the hallways, walking in different directions when they left classes they had in common (they had only two — Flying class on Thursday afternoons and double Potions the next morning) and making sure they never passed one another between classes. That suited Harry for the present — he had only the word of Ron's rat that anyone had broken into his dorm room in the first place, and the wards on his suitcase had been intact when he checked them. He'd put extra protections on the dorm room door, enchanting it so only the five boys who lived there could leave and enter freely — everyone else who entered would trigger the spell that would alert Harry someone had come into their room. So far that hadn't happened in the past three weeks. He _had_ summoned his Invisibility Cloak back to him, so that no matter _who'd_ taken it, they no longer had it. Surely no one was going to complain that the Cloak they'd stolen had somehow been stolen from them!

Aunt Clara had reached her stride after the Founders departed, holding lessons with Harry on weeknights between 9 p.m. and midnight. She was doing a good job, too — Harry found that even though she tended to goof up spells when she tried them herself, she was very good about teaching them to him. Likewise his Muggle subjects; she had apparently taught in several mortal schools over the centuries, and she had extensive knowledge of mortal history, mathematics, science and English literature and composition. Endora would pop into their late-night classes every so often, apparently checking up on Aunt Clara, but other than the usual bickering between sisters she had nothing bad to say about Clara's teaching methods.

Their first Quidditch match against Slytherin was three weeks away, and Oliver Wood had been working everyone on the team hard, including Ron, who was a passable Chaser, behind Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell. Fred and George, the team's Beaters, had of course taken the mickey out of Ron, reminding him that three girls were better Chasers than he was. Rounding out the team was Oliver as Captain and Keeper, and Harry as Seeker. They had been practicing three times a week for more than a month now, and Harry had gotten to the point of deliberately holding off on catching the Snitch in practice, to keep Wood's enthusiasm from going out of control. Oliver was adamant that they were taking the Quidditch cup this year, and that Harry would be the major reason. Naturally, this did not engender much in the way of team spirit among the other players, so Harry would surreptitiously cast spells to make them make great saves or score nearly impossible shots, to keep the limelight off himself. He'd also stopped using his own flying ability as Seeker, using only the speed and maneuverability of his Hogwarts broomstick during practice. This tended to lengthen the practices some, but it was better than using witchcraft to cheat at the game.

Then there was the elephant in the room — or rather, the invisible wizard who'd been following them around for the past few weeks, observing them in classes, during meals, and in their common room in the evenings. Harry had warned Ron about him after he'd first seen him in the Great Hall, invisibly watching Aunt Clara, telling him not to say anything aloud about Harry abilities, even whispered, until Harry told him it was safe to talk. About the only place the man didn't follow them was into their dorm room. It was strange, but no matter how much Ron and Harry tried to ditch the man he kept finding him; no matter what odd hallway or dark corner they hid in, he eventually found them. It was like the man had a tracing spell on him, but Harry remembered Samantha had told him after he came to live with her that she'd removed all such spells from his person. They couldn't even go into the toilet without him loitering around outside their stalls, which was rather creepy. Harry had warned Hermione about the man as well, but as often as not she would sit with the other first-year girls rather than him and Ron. That was a little annoying, too, since Harry thought they had gotten off to a good start as friends during their first week at school, but since Lockhart had shown up she had become more aloof and cooler toward him. And now that everyone thought Lockhart was performing just _splendidly_ as Defense professor, nobody seemed to care how weird he was acting toward Hermione.

"You look pretty thoughtful," Ron said as they ate lunch that day. True, Harry had been thinking so deeply that he'd barely touched his plate since filling it. "What are you thinking about?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing, I guess." Too many things running around in his head at the moment to single out any one of them. He poked at the meat on his plate, to avoid saying anything else to Ron.

He glanced down the table, seeing Lavender, Parvati, Darla and Fay eating their meals. Hermione wasn't with them. He looked back at Ron. "How're things going with you and Lavender?" he asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ron didn't like being quizzed about his crush on Lavender.

"'Bout the same as things with you and Hermione," Ron retorted defensively. Harry nodded knowingly. Ron was trying to be cool, but every time Lavender spoke to him he would smile and chat with her, ignoring everyone else.

"Good, good," Harry murmured, smirking. "Glad to hear it. When's the wedding going to be, d'you think?"

"Just get off," Ron muttered, punching Harry lightly on the arm to shut him up.

"Ron?" Ron turned around to see Lavender standing next to him.

"Oh, hi," Ron said, beaming at her. "How's it going?"

"Okay," Lavender said, but her tone was fraught with concern. "Say, do you know where Hermione is? She was going to eat lunch with us but she isn't here yet."

"Uh, I dunno," Ron shrugged. He looked at Harry, who shrugged as well.

"Okay," Lavender said worriedly. "Well, if you see her before we do, let her know we're worried about her." She turned and walked back to the other girls.

"That's not good," Harry muttered. "When even the other girls don't know where she's off to."

"Wonder where she'd be," Ron said to Harry, in a sarcastic tone. "With Lockhart, d'you think?"

"Not this time," Harry said. "Look." He pointed to the High Table, where Professor Lockhart was seated, sipping on a silver goblet.

"Huh. When did he show up?" Ron asked.

"I wasn't paying attention," Harry said. "But _look_ at him. He looks half-asleep." Unlike most of the time, when Lockhart was being the oh-so-popular Defense professor, engaging and interesting and annoying as hell, his expression now was blank, almost catatonic, as he lifted the goblet to his lips every ten seconds or so, sipping from it and letting his hand fall to the table, like clockwork. It reminded Harry of a few of Dudley's toys back on Privet Drive, that you could wind up and they would go through the motions of eating or chopping wood, or whatever.

"Whatever he's drinking, I need some of that for History class," Ron quipped.

"So if he's _here_ ," Harry said in a low voice. "Where's Hermione?"

Harry and Ron stared at one another for several seconds. "Any way you can, er, do your thing to find her?" Ron asked, worried.

"No," Harry shook his head. He hadn't put any tracing spells on her or Ron, out of respect for their privacy, but he was regretting that at the moment. For a second he considered asking the invisible wizard how he kept finding him and Ron, and if he could do the same for Hermione, but he didn't want to give away the fact that he knew they were being followed. "Do you think Fred and George will help us look for her?"

Ron made a face, but it was a good idea. "They might, they know a lot of the secret passage ways around Hogwarts." They both jumped up from the table and went down to where Fred and George were having lunch with their friend Lee Jordan. "Can we have a word?" Ron asked.

Fred and George smiled at him. "You can have two," Fred said. " _Go_ —"

"—And _away_ ," George finished. They both went back to their meals.

"Come on," Ron huffed. "This is important! We're trying to find Hermione and we need some help."

Fred and George turned and sized up Harry, who was waiting with anticipation on his face. "Do you think we should?" George asked Fred.

"Well, considering we've been following Harry and ickle Ronnie around for the past few weeks, it's the least we can do," Fred commented. He and George stood. "Right, come on, you two."

Harry and Ron followed the twins out of the Great Hall, up the grand staircase and through several corridors until they came to a small alcove with no exit. George took out his wand, raising it and saying " _Lumos_ " to light the tip of his wand. Fred in turned reached into his robes and pulled out a large piece of blank parchment. "Now, what we are about to show you two must remain a closely guarded secret," he warned. " _No one_ else is to know about it, got it?"

Ron and Harry both nodded quickly. "Swear you won't tell," George insisted. "Not even Hermione."

"I swear," both Ron and Harry said in turn.

"Right, then." Fred took out his own wand and tapped the parchment. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

At once, thin lines began to spread across the parchment from the point of Fred's wand. They joined, they crossed, they covered every corner of the parchment. Words began to form across the top, in curly green script, reading,

 _Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs_  
Purveyors of Aide to Magical Mischief-Makers  
are Proud to Present

 **THE MARAUDER'S MAP**

"Whoa," Ron gasped. "Where did you get this?"

"From Filch," George said, smugly. "It was our first year, and we'd gotten into a spot of bother with him over a Dungbomb going off in a corridor one day."

"So he hauled us off to his office," Fred chimed in. "And started threatening us with the usual—"

"— detention —" George muttered.

"— beatings —" Fred continued.

"— disembowelment —" George added.

"— and we couldn't help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked **Confiscated and Highly Dangerous** ," Fred finished.

"Don't tell me —" said Harry, starting to grin.

"Well, what would you've done?" said Fred. "George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open, and grabbed — this." He held out the Map lovingly.

"We don't reckon Filch ever found out how to work it," George said. "He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn't have confiscated it in the first place."

"And you know how to work it?" Ron asked.

"Oh yes," said Fred, smirking. "This little beauty's taught us more than all the teachers in this school."

"How come you never told _me_ about it?" Ron asked indignantly.

Fred and George looked at one another and laughed. "Do you not understand the concept of a 'secret,' ickle Ronnie." Fred quipped. Ron scowled at him. "But we digress," Fred went on. "Let's get down to business." He held out the map for them to see.

The map showed them every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds, no small feat for a castle with eight floors and multiple towers. But what was truly remarkable were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled with a name.

Harry bent over it, fascinated. He pointed to the Great Hall, where at the High Table he saw the dot labeled Severus Snape was seated. "There's Snape," he said. "And McGonagall," he added, pointing to her dot nearby. "This is really amazing!"

"We thought you'd like it," Fred or George said. "It's right up there with Harry and Extra-Harry."

"So where are we on this thing?" Ron asked, running a finger along the corridors from the staircase they'd come up. "Oh, here we are! I see Harry, and me, and George and Fred, and —"

He stopped, looking up at Harry, his finger pointing to a name that was very close to them: Remus Lupin. But only the four of them were visible in George's wand-light.

They turned to face in the direction of the name. "You may as well come out," Fred said matter-of-factly. "We know you're there."

There was a sound like an egg being broken, and the thin, shabbily-dressed wizard Harry had seen standing invisibly next to Aunt Clara some weeks ago appeared. "Well, this is a bit embarrassing," the wizard, Lupin, said sheepishly. "I thought that Map had been lost."

"You _know_ about this Map?" Harry asked, surprised. Fred and George leaned forward, interested.

"Of course I do," Lupin said. "I helped write it." He held out a hand. "Perhaps you should give it to me —"

"Hold on," Fred said, pulling the Map away. "Finder's keepers."

A wand was suddenly in Lupin's hand and he flicked it toward the Map, which shot out of Fred's hand, folding as it flew through the air, to Lupin. "Sorry, lads, I'm afraid not in this case."

Fred and George both looked stricken at the loss of the Map, and Harry began to get angry. It wasn't fair to just take the Map from them like that! After all, they had found it, fair and square!

"What're you doing following Harry around anyway?" Fred demanded. "Oh yes, we noticed you on the Map weeks ago, being Harry's shadow." He glanced at Ron and smirked. "At least, the shadow nobody could see."

"That's not your concern, Mr. Weasley," Lupin said stiffly. "And I'm not at liberty to discuss this with you, anyway —"

"I know Dumbledore's having you follow me," Harry spoke up angrily. "You're following my Aunt Clara around, too, aren't you?"

"Harry, it's not like that," Lupin said, trying to calm him. "Perhaps you should discuss this with Professor Dumbledore —"

"Perhaps I will," Harry cut over him. "But for now, before you _steal_ that Map away from Fred and George, maybe you can tell us where Hermione is right now! We don't know where she got off to after morning classes."

"All right," Lupin said quietly. He unfolded the Map and held it in front of him. "Where is Hermione Granger?" he asked. There was a flash of blue and all eyes went to ground floor, east side exit where students left the castle to go to the Herbology greenhouses. Hermione was just coming inside through the exit.

"Why was she in the greenhouses?" Ron wondered. "Did she forget something from class this morning?"

Harry shook his head, not knowing. They watched Hermione walk through the castle and enter the Great Hall, taking a seat at the Gryffindor table next to Parvati and Lavender.

"Thank you for showing us that," Harry told Lupin, some resentment in his voice. "Though I don't know why you have to take that Map away."

Lupin stared at them a long moment. "Perhaps," he murmured, a small smile on his lips. "…I don't." He tapped the Map with his wand, saying "Mischief managed." The lines on the map disappeared and he folded it and handed it to Fred. "Use it wisely," he said, then turned and walked out of the alcove.

"Huh," Fred and George said at the same moment, then looked at one another. "Now what?"  
"Now we go talk to Hermione," Harry said, firmly. "I want to know what's been going on with her these past few weeks."

"Right," George said. "Fred and I will be up in our dorm room, figuring out new ways of keeping the Map safe." The twins hurried from the alcove.

Ron started to follow, then turned to look at Harry. "Aren't we going to talk to Hermione?" he asked.

"Yes," Harry agreed. "But the quick way." He snapped his fingers. A moment later they were standing in front of the doors to the Great Hall. Harry pushed open the door and went inside, with Ron following, shaking his head a bit at the sudden transition.

There were two empty seats next to Hermione and Harry slid into the one right beside her. Ron took the other one a moment later. Hermione finished saying something to Parvati then turned to Harry with a raised eyebrow. "You're eating lunch awfully late today."

"I already ate," Harry said curtly. "I think we need to talk about the things Professor Lockhart is having you do."

"Why?" Hermione asked blandly. "Do you want to be one of his aides, too?"

"No," Harry said, emphatically. "But you've been pretty secretive about what he's got you doing. What were you doing after Potions class for nearly 45 minutes? Lavender even came over and asked us if we knew where you were!"

"I don't see how that's any of your concern, Harry," Hermione replied tartly. "I wish you'd get over this foolish suspicion you have about Professor Lockhart. Everyone in school thinks he's doing just brilliantly teaching Defense this year."

"After being a complete idiot about it the first week he was here," Harry countered. "You remember what happened with the Cornish pixies, don't you?"

Hermione gave him a baleful look. "He was just getting used to teaching, Harry! He's never done it before. He's used to being out there, traveling around the world helping protect people from Dark forces. You have to give him a little time so he can adjust to academic life."

Harry opened his mouth to retort but the bell signaling the end of lunch rang at that moment. "To be continued," he said, as everyone in the Great Hall began readying themselves for the next period. "We can talk about this on the way to History."

Hermione sighed as she and the other first-year girls gathered their book bags. "Honestly, Harry, you worry too much."

"I don't think so," Harry said, standing with her. "There are some strange things going on around Lockhart —" He stopped as a small flying bird suddenly began circling his head. He held up a hand and the bird fluttered into it. It was made of folded parchment, and it unfolded in his hand. He read,

* * *

 _Mr. Potter,  
_ _Please come to my office before your next class.  
_ _Professor McGonagall_

* * *

" _Now_ what?" he muttered after he finished reading it. "Ron," he said, turning to his best friend. "I've got to go see McGonagall. See if you can convince Hermione to tell you what's up between her and Lockhart. If that's alright with _you_ —" he turned back to Hermione, but she had walked off with the other girls. "Great," he muttered as he watched them walk away. "Anyway," he said to Ron. "I'll catch up."

"Right," Ron said, hurrying after the girls. "See you then!"

Harry picked up his book bag and made his way through the school to McGonagall's office on the first floor. He knocked on the door and McGonagall bade him enter.

"Mr. Potter," she said to him, an uncharacteristically soft expression on her face. "Thank you for coming here on short notice. I've been thinking about your Invisibility Cloak for the past few weeks…"

"It's alright, Professor," Harry said when she paused, trying to mollify her.

"No, it's not," McGonagall overrode him. "I do feel guilty for having given it away to someone I thought was you, and I want to make that up to you." She reached down behind her desk and brought up a large object, setting it on her desk between them. "I want you to have this."

The object was wrapped in heavy brown paper, but its shape left no doubt in Harry's mind what it was. "A broom? For me?" he said, surprised.

"Yes," the Transfiguration teacher said. She moved the package closer to him. "Open it. I think you'll like what I've gotten you."

"I thought first-years couldn't own brooms," Harry objected (though not very strongly — it would be cool to be the only first-year who had a broom!). "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Just open it," McGonagall said, picking it up and holding it out for him. Harry took the package. He studied it for a moment, then began tearing off the wrapping, revealing a sleek racing broom of finely polished wood, with tail bristles perfectly sculpted for speed. There was a footrest attached, which could be folded up when not in use, and the broom's handle had an upward arch near the front, for better handling, and at the very front was engraved its model name: Nimbus 2000, in gold script.

"Wow," Harry said, holding it out in front of him. "I don't know what to say, Professor. It's a wonderful gift, but you didn't have to —"

"It's not entirely selfless, Mr. Potter," McGonagall interrupted him. "Mr. Wood has told me that the broom you're using is not nearly fast enough for someone of your talent. And I do expect you to do your best during matches — _especially_ against Slytherin," she added, her mouth thinning in frustration. "It's been _years_ since we've beaten them, you know."

"I will," Harry nodded. "Do my best, that is. And don't worry about my Cloak, Professor — I got that back weeks ago."

"Oh?" McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Did the person who took give it back?"

"More or less," Harry shrugged, not wanting to get into specifics.

"So who was it?" McGonagall wanted to know.

"I'm not really sure," Harry hedged. "It just — reappeared one day."

McGonagall nodded, understanding Harry's reticence in tattling. For all she knew it could have been the Weasley twins having a bit of fun with Harry. In fact, that's what she decided to assume until new information came to light. "Very well. You'd better get to class — drop that broom off in your dorm before you go. And don't worry about the first-year rule about broomsticks — your being on the Gryffindor team overrides that school policy. Off you go."

Nodding thanks a final time, Harry bolted from the Deputy Headmistress's office. He was going to be so late to class! Fortunately, it was History of Magic this period, and Professor Binns was always so engrossed in his lectures that he barely noticed what went on around him; he wouldn't notice Harry sneaking into class.

As he ran up a staircase to the second floor and rounded a corner, he nearly ran into a girl with long, shining dark hair who was coming from the other direction. "Whoops! Sorry!" Harry said, skidding to a halt. The girl, taken aback, stared at him, her hand to her bosom, when she suddenly smiled.

"I recognize you," she said. "You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Harry panted, a little out of breath. "Sorry," he said again. "I probably shouldn't have been running in the hallways…"

"I was, too," the girl admitted. "I'm late for class. Transfiguration. I'm Cho Chang, by the way," she said, and put out a hand. Harry shook it as the girl stared at the Nimbus 2000 in his other hand. "Is that _yours_?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes," Harry said, holding it up for her to see. "I, er, just got it today." He decided not to say who'd given it to him.

"It's a very good broom," Cho said, eyeing it enviously. "My parents got me a Comet 260 for Quidditch this year. They're nice, too, but the Nimbus is the best."

"So I've heard," Harry nodded. "So you play Quidditch, too?"

Cho nodded. "I'm on the Ravenclaw team," she said, then smiled wryly. "I suppose that should be obvious, since I'm in Ravenclaw!"

"I see," Harry nodded. He wouldn't have known except the for the Ravenclaw crest over her left — er, bosom. "So, um, what position do you play?"

Cho smiled at him. "I'm the Seeker."

"Oh," Harry smiled back. "I'm the Gryffindor Seeker."

"I know," Cho said quickly. As if she'd said too much, she pointed the way Harry had come. "I'd better get going or McGonagall will give me lines for being tardy."

"I ought to go, too," Harry agreed. "I've got to put this away then get to History."

"At least you won't have too much trouble sneaking into class," Cho said, wisely. "Just don't call attention to yourself and you'll be fine."

Harry nodded. "Well, see you," he said, with a little wave. Cho waved back then ran off down the staircase. Harry watched her a second then took off toward Gryffindor Tower.

But he was stopped again only a few corridors later, this time by Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. This time there was no pretense of friendliness on Malfoy's part. The three Slytherins surrounded him on three sides, and Malfoy reached out and took the broom from him.

"What's this?" he drawled, hefting it before tossing it back to Harry, who caught it deftly. "First-years aren't allowed broomsticks, Potter. You'll be in for it now."

"Don't worry about it, Malfoy," Harry said coldly.

"How'd you get it?" Malfoy demanded, a sneering smile on his sharp features.

Harry smirked at him. "I'll tell you if you tell me why you were looking for a diary in my dorm a few weeks back," he offered.

Malfoy's smile disappeared. "What are you talking about?" he said, his tone now nervous. Crabbe and Goyle suddenly looked concerned as well. How did Potter _know_? "How could we even get into your stupid old common area, anyway?"

"Well, let's see," Harry said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose you might've used an Invisibility Cloak to sneak in after hearing the password." Goyle gasped softly, and both Malfoy and Crabbe shushed him. But it was too late. That had as good as given everything away.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," Malfoy shrugged. "You can't prove anything, Potter." He pointed at the Nimbus. "And that broom's not going to help you in the match against Slytherin. We've got ways of dealing with you."

"Ooo, I'm scared," Harry sneered.

"You ought to be," Malfoy said, taking a step forward threateningly. He poked a finger into Harry's chest. "You know, we could just take that broom away from you. There's three of us and one of you."

"Yeah, just like that night in the Trophy Room," Harry pointed out.

"Yeah, that night," Malfoy chuckled. "Well, I've got news for you, Potter — I figured out how you were able to beat us so easily that night."

"Oh? How'd I do it, then?" Harry asked, interested.

"It wasn't you at all," Malfoy said. "It was that uncle of yours, Uncle Arthur. The guy was secretly helping you fight us. That's the only way a first-year like you could have done all those things."

It was an interesting theory, Harry allowed. It certainly beat him admitting he was a warlock, with the power to stop all three of them with a single gesture.

"But now you're alone," Malfoy went on, taking another step and putting a hand on the Nimbus's handle. "You couldn't stop us if you wanted to." To emphasize the point Crabbe and Goyle both stepped closer as well, effectively boxing Harry between the three of them.

"You _think_ I'm alone," Harry said quickly, wanting to avoid a fight if he could. He'd win it, no doubt, but it might look strange for someone like him to take on and beat the likes of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. "But for all you know, my uncle is still watching over me." Malfoy's expression went fearful for a moment. "Do you really want to take that chance?"

Malfoy hesitated. "You're bluffing," he said at last, staring to pull on the Nimbus. "Come on, hand it over!"

Harry started to resist, but as Crabbe and Goyle reached out to take hold of him, there was a sudden loud scraping noise and a long, low hissing sound. Malfoy and his bodyguards froze. "What was that?" Malfoy asked in a low voice, looking around. "Is someone coming?" Crabbe and Goyle looked around nervously as well. There was another rumble, coming seemingly from nowhere and a softer hissing noise this time. Malfoy spun back to Harry.

"You're making those noises, somehow, to trick us!" he said accusingly.

"No, I'm not," Harry said. "Whatever they were, I didn't make them." But Harry had heard much more than just hissing and scraping. He'd heard _words_ as well — horrifying words. " _At last…time to kill… so long…so hungry… I smell blood_!" The voice had grown softer as he listened, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere. So had the rumbling and scraping sounds that accompanied it.

"Too bad," Malfoy jeered. "Now hand over that broom!" He grasped the handle again as Crabbe and Goyle each took hold of one of his arms. Harry was preparing to time-stop the trio and leave with his broom when Malfoy suddenly let go and took a step away from him. From around a nearby corner came the loud THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of heavy footsteps. Crabbe and Goyle stepped away from him just as the half-giant groundskeeper, Hagrid, came around the corner, muttering to himself and dabbing at his face with a tablecloth. But after a second look Harry realized that what Hagrid was holding was a _handkerchief_.

Hagrid stopped upon seeing the four of them. "Here, now," he said, in a voice that sounded both surprised and sad. "What're you boys doin' out of class — oh, hey there, Harry!" Hagrid nodded toward him like they were old friends. Harry had never figured out why the man seemed to know and like him.

Hagrid frowned as he surmised what had been happening. "Whyn't you boys move along, then," he said to the Slytherins, jerking a thumb back the way he'd came.

"Potter's got a broomstick," Malfoy said quickly, trying to salvage the situation. "First-years aren't supposed to bring broomsticks to school."

"Well, I happen to know Harry _didn't_ bring that broom to school," Hagrid growled. "But it's none 'a yer concern, is it, Mr. Malfoy? Now go on."

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle slunk off, muttering imprecations about Hagrid amongst themselves, though Harry was able to make out what they'd said.

When they were gone, Hagrid looked down at Harry. "Lucky I come along just then, innit Harry?"

"Thanks, Mr. Hagrid," Harry said. He studied the half-giant a moment. Hagrid's eyes were red, and the hand that wasn't holding the handkerchief was protectively holding a large leather pouch slung along his side. "Are you doing okay? You look upset."

"Ah, well…" Hagrid looked embarrassed. "Guess I am, then. Just found something and I was going ter tell the Headmaster about it."

"What did you find?" Harry asked curiously.

"Our chickens," Harry said, and sniffed. "We got chickens fer eggs, y'know. But when I went out to tend to 'em just after lunch I found — this." Hagrid leaned forward, opening the leather pouch, and Harry looked inside, then recoiled in surprise. The bodies of several chickens were inside the pouch.

"Someone killed the chickens?" he blurted.

"The roosters, really," Hagrid sniffed, then broke down crying into the handkerchief. "But why?! Why would someone do somethin' like this?! It don' make any sense!"

Harry didn't understand it either. What was the point of killing all of the roosters, other than stopping chickens from laying eggs? "What are you going to do, Mr. Hagrid?"

"Jes' call me Hagrid," the half-giant sniffled. "Ev'rybody else does. I gotta talk to Professor Dumbledore — he might have some notion about what's going on." Hagrid closed up the pouch. "I better get going, Harry. The sooner we get this figgered out, the better. His beetle-black eyes crinkled in a sudden smile. "It's good seein' yer again, Harry. We ain't had a chance ter talk much, have we?"  
"I suppose not," Harry said, carefully neutral. Why _would_ he and Hagrid talk, he wondered. Perhaps he should find out why. "Maybe we can find a time to do that," he suggested.

"That'd be excellent!" Hagrid beamed. "I know yer got yer last period on Fridays free. Whyn't you come out to my hut then an' we'll have some tea an' cakes, then?"

"That sounds fine," Harry nodded. "Well, I'd better get my broom put away and get to class. I'm seriously late as it is."

"Don' worry," Hagrid said. "Yeh can sneak into Binn's class without much trouble, can't cha?"

"Sure," Harry nodded, wondering if Hagrid had his class schedule memorized. "I'll see you Friday, Hagrid."

"Bye, Harry," Hagrid said, then set off down the hallway. When he was out of sight Harry snapped his fingers and popped up to the seventh floor not far from the Gryffindor common room. He gave the Fat Lady the password and ran up the stairs to his dorm. Taking his suitcase out from beneath his bed, he canceled the spells guarding it and undid the latches holding it closed. Inside the case was a very deep compartment filled with all of his belongings. He fed the Nimbus into the suitcase and closed it up again, reestablished the wards and placed the case back under the bed.

On his way out he glanced over at Ron's bed, expecting to see Scabbers the rat sleeping on Ron's pillow, as usual. But the bed was completely empty. Harry shook his head, shrugged and stepped out on the staircase leading back down to the common room. But instead of going down them he snapped his fingers again, vanishing and reappearing outside classroom 72. Harry slipped quietly inside the door, walking silently past the rows of desks as the other first-years watched him. Binns was speaking in a dry monotone about wizards of medieval times, specifically about the problems they'd had with goblins during that time. Goblins had apparently been a big problem for wizards back then.

Harry made his way to the back of the room, then along the back to the row where Ron was sitting. He walked forward and slipped into the empty seat next to him. Dean's head was half-turned, watching him, and he gave Harry a wink of victory as Harry began quietly pulling out the books for the subject he planned to work on in Binn's class.

" _Mister_ Potter," Binn's dry, creaky voice suddenly interjected into his lecture. "Do you plan to make it a habit to be late for this class?"

Harry looked up in surprise. Normally Binns was so imperturbable he would lecture even through thunderstorms — how had Harry caught his attention?" "Um, no sir," he said.

"See that you don't," Binns snapped. "This is important historical information and you should be aware of our rich history, especially as it pertains to our struggles with the goblin race. The next time you show up late for class, I shall have to —" Binns hesitated, as if trying to remember the appropriate punishment for such a misdeed. "I shall have to issue you — a detention."  
The musical riff DUN-DUN-DUNN ran through Harry's head, from a television show he'd watched at Samantha's several months ago, a riff signaling a dramatic change occurring. "Sorry, Professor," he said. "It won't happen again."

Binns nodded, apparently satisfied, and went back to his lecture. Ron leaned over and whispered. "What took you so long?"

Harry shook his head. "I'll tell you after class. It's complicated. So what did Hermione say about what she's doing with Lockhart?"

"She didn't," Ron shrugged. "She clammed up all the way to class, then refused to let me sit with her when we got here. Why?"

"Something really weird is going on around here," Harry whispered. "I heard — something — speaking, but I couldn't see who was talking."

"What was it saying?" Ron asked.

"Pretty awful stuff," Harry replied. "About blood, and it being time to kill. And then I saw Hagrid bringing dead roosters to Dumbledore, he said they were all killed around lunchtime." Harry looked directly at Ron. "That might've happened while Hermione was missing."

Ron's eyes widened. "You think _Hermione_ —?"

"I don't know _what_ to think!" Harry hissed. "But I've got to talk to Hermione about it, and she's going to have to tell us something, or —"

"Or — what?" Ron asked, when Harry didn't go on.

"Or, I might have to make her talk," Harry said grimly.

After History was double Defense with the Hufflepuffs. On the way to class Harry filled Ron in on what else had happened after he went to talk to McGonagall. Ron was excited about the Nimbus 2000 and furious that Malfoy and his crew tried to take it from Harry. "You wouldn't have let him, would you?" he asked.

"Of course not. Hagrid came by at a lucky moment and I didn't have to zap Malfoy or anything, but it was a near thing. By the way, we're having tea with Hagrid on Friday during last period."  
"What? Why?"

"Every time I've met Hagrid he's been happy to see me. He seems to know me, somehow, and I want to find out what that's all about," Harry explained.

"Okay, I guess," Ron shrugged. "So what do you think is going on with Hermione?"

"That's what she's going to tell us," Harry said firmly. "One way or another."

They entered the Defense classroom and took their seats alongside the Hufflepuffs. Lockhart entered the classroom as the bell rang and went immediately into the day's lesson, which was a discussion on offensive versus defensive magic. His demeanor was a 180-degree turnaround from the nearly comatose person at lunch they'd seen just a short time ago. Hermione immediately held up her hand. "Professor? I think that subject comes later in the course syllabus."

"It does, Miss Granger," Lockhart answered. "But I would prefer to move ahead a bit and come back to our current subjects as time permits. It is more important for all of you to have a solid grasp of offensive as well as defensive techniques, not simply a list of which spells to use against which Dark creature." Hermione nodded agreement and lowered her hand. From behind Harry couldn't see her face, but she seemed to be staring intently at Lockhart, hanging on his every word. Harry _really_ wanted to know what that was about.

"We shall start with one of the simplest offensive spells available," Lockhart continued. "The Stunning Charm. I'm sure most of you know of it, even though it is generally taught here at Hogwarts in the fifth year." Lockhart smirked. "A mistake, in my opinion, since it is also useful for halting inanimate objects and thus could be useful for earlier years. Now, to demonstrate." Lockhart waved his wand and a ball appeared in front of Ernie Macmillan. "Mr. Macmillan, if you would throw that ball at me."

Ernie looked a bit dubious but he picked up the ball and tossed it gently toward Lockhart. The Defense professor's wand whipped up as the ball left Ernie's hand. " _Stupefy_!" A bolt of magical energy struck the ball, which stopped in midair and fell to the floor. "Not a very powerful throw, Mr. Macmillan," Lockhart commented dryly. "You weren't planning to try out for Quidditch next year, were you?"

Ernie's face reddened as laughter rippled around the room and Harry swallowed a snort of disgust. Even as much as Lockhart had changed in the past few weeks, he was still an arse.

Lockhart had them practice the wand motions for the Stunning spell, then recite the charm several times. "Let's put them together now. Everyone on your feet." As they stood, the desks and chairs slid to the sides of the room, leaving the middle clear. "Form two lines on either side of the room," Lockhart directed. "Gryffindors there, Hufflepuffs over there." Everyone jostled about separating as Lockhart had told them to.

"This ought to be interesting," Ron whispered to Harry as they waited for Lockhart's next instructions. "I could've used this spell a few times when Fred and George were picking on me."

Harry looked at him. "Would you really Stun your own brothers?"

Ron reddened. "Well, they can be pretty mean sometimes," he replied defensively.

"Mean enough that you want to knock them unconscious?" Ron didn't reply as they moved toward the Gryffindor line.

Soon ten Gryffindors faced ten Hufflepuffs across the Defense classroom, while Lockhart looked on. It was starting to feel a bit strange; did Lockhart really expect them to try and Stun one another, Harry wondered. Because that's exactly what he seemed to be getting them ready to do.

"Alright," Lockhart announced, holding his wand high in the air. "When I drop my wand, I want you to Stun the person directly across from you." Students on both sides looked at one another in surprise and apprehension. "Ready?" Lockhart continued, seemingly oblivious to their concerns. "Now!" he said, moving his wand swiftly downward.

One student, Zacharias Smith, cried " _Stupefy_!" but his wand motion was incorrect and the spell didn't work, leaving Neville sighing with relief. No one else had tried to cast the spell, not even Hermione.

"That was disappointing," Lockhart commented as he stepped between the rows of students. "Was that too difficult a concept for most of you to grasp? I would award points to Mr. Smith for effort, except I would have to deduct them for the rest of his house. I'll simply take ten points from Gryffindor for poor performance."

"Professor, that's not fair!" Dean Thomas objected. "You can't simply expect us to start throwing curses at one another just like that!"

"Can't I?" Lockhart stared the first-year down. "Do you think you will never have to cast a spell at someone you know? It happens all the time, young man, have no illusions about that! Now, shall we try this again?"

"Professor," Harry spoke up. "If you want us to do this, perhaps it would be better if we practiced one-on-one, rather than starting out as a group?"

Lockhart studied him a moment. "An interesting suggestion, Mr. Potter. All right, we shall try it your way. Each of you pair yourselves with someone from another House."

Students shuffled around as people paired off with one another. Harry ended up with Leanne Chow, a blonde-haired girl with features similar to the girl he had met earlier, Cho Chang. For a brief moment Harry wondered if they were related, but decided not to ask; Leanne seemed shy. Or perhaps she was scared, she did not look as if she was enjoying this lesson at all.

"When I say 'Now'," Lockhart said loudly over the murmurings of the students, "both you and your opponent attempt to cast the Stunning Charm at one another."

Leanne was looking at Harry with wide eyes, shaking her head. Her wand was shaking in her hand. "Don't worry," Harry told her reassuringly. "Just try the best you can."

"Ready?" Lockhart called out. "Now!"

Several voices called out " _Stupefy_!" around the room, and there were sounds of spell fire and bodies falling to the floor. Dean had Stunned Ernie Macmillan, while Parvati and Susan Bones had managed to Stun one another. Leanne hadn't moved, and neither had Harry, as he'd tried to give her a chance. He pointed his wand downward and nodded to her. She nodded in reply, then cringed as she cast the spell. It struck Harry in the wand-arm. His witchcraft-enhanced body absorbed the spell without harm, but he dropped his wand and grabbed his arm as if it had been affected. "Good shot," he called out to Leanne, who smiled in triumph but looked unhappy at having hurt him.

"That was a little better," Lockhart said dispassionately. "But we still have a long way to go before any of you are even marginally proficient." He shook his head at Harry. "I am especially disappointed in you, Mr. Potter — you will have to do more than let yourself be a practice target." Harry glared at Lockhart as the Defense professor turned away from him; he noticed Hermione staring at him as well, a strange look in her eyes.

Lockhart spent the rest of the period making them practice various offensive spells on one another — _Tarantallegra_ , which made the victim dance uncontrollably; the Avifors Charm, which Transfigured an object into a bird or flock of birds, which the caster could use to attack others; the Knockback Spell, which pushed or knocked back the target. The Tickling Spell was the only one that students felt halfway comfortable with, due to its mostly innocuous nature. An obvious spell, but one Lockhart didn't include, was the Disarming Charm, which Harry thought would have been a very useful offensive spell.

None of this felt right to Harry. Why was Lockhart having them use offensive spells on one another? In one sense it seemed reasonable, but not something first-years should be doing. Was Lockhart trying to desensitize them to hurting one another? If true, that seemed like a bad sign. Now Harry _really_ wanted to talk to Hermione about what she was helping the Defense professor with!

When the bell rang at the end of class Lockhart pointed to the blackboard with his wand, making their reading and homework assignment appear there. "This will be due by your next double class," he said, then left the room without a backward glance.

"I dunno about you," Ron muttered as they picked up their book bags. "But I'm not any happier with the new Lockhart than I was with the old one. That Stunning spell is hard!"

"It's not a first-year spell, Ron," Harry remarked. "We shouldn't even be practicing it now. Come on," he said, walking faster. "Let's catch up with Hermione."

They hurried up to catch the group of Gryffindor girls who were ahead of them. "Got a minute to talk?" Harry asked Hermione.

"About what?" Hermione glanced at him. "More Professor Lockhart bashing? I really don't want to hear it —"

"You may need to," Harry cut over her. "Did you think that class we just had was a good idea?"

"Well, we do need to be aware of how to defend ourselves," Hermione said, carefully. "I'm sure you know that just as much as Professor Lockhart does."

"We can discuss that later," Harry dismissed the subject. "I have other concerns about what's going on between you and Lockhart."

"Oh, _this_ again!" Hermione sighed wearily. "You don't need to be so jealous, Harry! I'm just helping Professor Lockhart with some classwork, it's not a big deal."

"If it's not a big deal," Ron piped up. "Then why can't one of the other girls help him?"

"Because he likes _my_ work," Hermione smiled smugly. They came to a staircase. "The rest of us are going to study our assignment in the Library until it's time for dinner. Would you like to come with us?"

"Pass," Harry said. Hermione shrugged as if she didn't care.

"Suit yourself," she sniffed, and she and the other Gryffindor girls went down the staircase to the first floor, leaving Harry and Ron standing there watching them go.

"Now what?" Ron asked, when they were gone.

"I wish I knew," Harry muttered, frustrated. He was trying to respect Hermione's personal space, but this was becoming serious. And he still had to figure out where and what that voice he'd heard earlier was all about. "Come on, let's find Fred and George and see if we can borrow that Map from them. I want to know when Hermione is alone so we can figure out what's happened to her."

 **=ooo=**

Albus Dumbledore listened carefully as Hagrid related his tale of finding the school's roosters all strangled just after lunch that day. Hagrid was clearly distraught over their deaths, as he felt responsible for all of the creatures within the grounds of Hogwarts, even those of a decidedly less than benign nature.

"I just don' understand it, Headmaster," Hagrid was saying. "There just ain't no reason why someone would kill them poor birds." There was, but Dumbledore chose not to inform Hagrid of that fact. Knowing Hagrid, his sympathies might somehow lie with the creature for whose benefit the roosters had been slaughtered, not with the people who might be harmed by it, should it reappear. Hagrid's interests had always turned more toward animals than people, though he was a kind and caring soul for those in need.

If the roosters had been slaughtered, the reappearance of the creature that feared them could not be far behind. The question Dumbledore was concerned with was _who_ could be doing this? The person responsible for it nearly fifty years ago was now frozen and being kept in the cabinet in his office, unable to call the creature back into action. At least, Dumbledore _hoped_ that was the case. Was it possible Voldemort could reach out even from there and awaken it again? Dumbledore didn't think so, but it remained a possibility.

"Hagrid," Dumbledore said, with no noticeable delay after the gamekeeper had spoken. "Please replace the roosters as soon as possible. And please secure the yard where they are kept, to prevent anyone from entering it without permission." Hagrid nodded acknowledgement, but he still looked troubled.

"But _why_ , Perfessor?" Hagrid asked, wiping the sleeve of his mokeskin coat across his eyes. "Why would anyone do something like this?"

"Ah, that remains a mystery for now, Hagrid," Dumbledore replied, in a resigned tone. "It may be something as simple as a person with a grudge against eggs, or it may be something more. We must wait and see."

"I suppose," Hagrid muttered, shaking his head. He stood, picking up the leather pouch on Dumbledore's desk. "Well, I better get these birds taken care of. No use letting 'em go to waste. They'll make a passable stew for a cold night like tonight." Ducking through the doorway, Hagrid left the Headmaster's office.

Albus sat for a time, pondering his options. It would be useful to get assistance in this matter, but it would set a precedent that he would rather leave alone. Still, someone with Harry's abilities could be useful in determining whether the creature was free once again, and in rendering it incapable of hurting anyone else. But to bring Harry in on this would be to set the boy up as even more of a hero than his current notoriety in the wizarding world afforded him. Of course, there was another option…

The Headmaster stood and moved over to office's fireplace. Taking a pinch of Floo powder, he tossed it into the embers. Emerald flames swirled up, flames that felt cool rather than hot. "Aunt Clara," Dumbledore spoke into the flames. "May I have a word with you in my office?"

There was silence for several seconds, then a sleepy voice replied, "Ah — oh, yes, yes, I suppose so. Give me a moment." Dumbledore could hear movement on the other side: the sound of bed springs creaking, slippers moving across a stone floor. "Let's see," he heard Clara mutter. "How does this thing work? Oh, never mind." A moment later she stepped out of the flames, wearing her usual black dress and pearls, brushing bits of soot from her hair. Dumbledore blinked, hiding his surprise. Clara hadn't Flooed into his office, she'd merely used the flames as a conduit.

"Hello," she said, primping her hair a bit. "You wanted to see me, Albus?"

"Indeed." Dumbledore gestured for her to sit at a nearby small table. "Would you care for some tea?" he asked after they were seated.

"Why, I — ah, that is, yes, I suppose," Clara nodded. She still seemed a bit disoriented from what Dumbledore presumed was a nap. "A spot would do me good right about now." Dumbledore gestured with his wand and a tea service appeared, with the teapot already filled with freshly brewed, piping hot tea. He began to reach for the teapot, but Clara put up a hand. "Let me get that, Albus," she said. She gestured toward the teapot, which lifted into the air and poured tea into two cups, then returned to the table. "Any sugar or cream?" Clara asked.

"Both, please," Dumbledore replied, and two lumps of sugar jumped into the air, each one landing in a separate cup. The creamer then levitated, pouring cream into both cups. Two spoons then jumped up from the table and leaped into the cups, stirring their contents.

"Oh, wonderful," Clara gushed. "Simply wonderful! Now for the last part." Both cups rose in the air, one floating toward Dumbledore, the other toward Clara. Dumbledore took his cup as it reached him, but Clara's cup suddenly crashed to the floor, breaking both cup and saucer to pieces.

"Oh, drat!" Clara moaned. She wagged a finger disapprovingly at the broken cup on the floor. "Now you stop that! _Calix frangitrix interduo_!" The broken cup and saucer flew upward, joining together as they did, with the tea returning to the cup. Not many wizards could do something like that, Albus knew; many of them would have some trouble just repairing the cup and saucer, much less returning the tea to the cup!

"Pardon my clumsiness," Clara told him, taking the cup from the air. "Now — er, what were we talking about?"

"I was about to request your help on a matter of some importance," Dumbledore told her, leaning forward to emphasize the gravity of what he was about to ask.

" _My_ help?" Clara shook her head. "Albus, dear boy, as I've been recently reminded, I am here to tutor Harry on certain subjects not taught in this school. More's the pity for that," she added parenthetically. "I cannot be involved in your school activities, don't you know?"

"I understand," Dumbledore nodded. "Yet, this does not involve any of the school subjects, but the safety of the students themselves."

"Oh my," Clara looked concerned. "Really?"

"Yes," the Headmaster's tone was grave. "Have you perchance, in your time here in the past, ever heard of the Chamber of Secrets?"

"Oh my yes," Clara actually chuckled, to Dumbledore's surprise. "It was one of Salazar's pet projects. He asked for my help building it, don't you know?"

"I did not know that," Dumbledore murmured. That was a surprising revelation! "Do you know why he built it?"

"Mostly as a joke," Clara said, waving a hand airily. "He told me he wanted to surprise the others with it, on Hogwarts's twenty-fifth anniversary. But he had left the school by then, and I only mentioned it to Godric some years later, after Rowena was — well, after she had passed on, poor dear. Godric was despondent over her death, you know…"

"What of the Chamber?" Dumbledore pressed, to keep her on subject. "Do you know where it is?"

"Well, somewhere beneath the school, I'm fairly sure," Clara said. "I'm not sure exactly where, though. Salazar asked me not to tell anyone where it was until he sprung the surprise. I'm afraid I made myself forget its location."

"Do you know," Dumbledore asked carefully. "What it was he put into the Chamber?"

Clara looked at him blankly. "I wasn't aware he put _anything_ in the Chamber. He merely told me that when it was finally opened there would be a big surprise awaiting everyone. I assume he would use it to throw a ball or some other celebration."

"Are you sure you don't know where it's at?" Dumbledore asked insistently.

Clara thought for several seconds. "Well, it might be — but no, that can't be it, that's on another floor… No, I'm afraid I can't remember."  
Dumbledore sighed, disappointed. It was a shame he hadn't thought to have Remus in his office to listen in on this conversation! He'd just gotten Clara to admit that she had been at Hogwarts since its beginning and that she'd participated in the building of the Chamber of Secrets! That could have been enough corroboration that powerful warlocks and witches existed apart from the wizarding world. He decided to try another tack.

"If there is some horror in the Chamber, we cannot let it endanger the children here at the school," Dumbledore said, softly. "Do you agree with that, Clara?"

"Oh, well, of course!" Clara gave the Headmaster an affronted look. "I certainly hope everyone here feels that way, too."

"Then I urge you to keep trying to remember the Chamber's location," Dumbledore told her. "Almost 50 years ago someone managed to find it, a student here who was descended from Salazar Slytherin himself."

Clara put a hand to her cheek. "Oh dear, that's terrible. Was anyone hurt?"

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "A young girl died, and another student was accused, wrongly I might add, of the crime of setting it loose in the castle. I do not wish for such a thing to happen again."

"I quite agree," Clara said. She stood. "I will do everything I can to remember where it is, Albus."

"Thank you," Dumbledore said gratefully. "Oh, and one other thing," he added, as Clara started for the fireplace. "I would not say anything to Harry or any of the other teachers about this conversation. We don't want students trying to find the Chamber on their own. The results could be disastrous."

Clara nodded and drew her fingers across her lips. "Mum's the word, Albus. I think I shall head back to my quarters now, to catch up on my sleep before Harry has his lessons tonight. Well, toodle-loo." She walked toward the fireplace, but instead of throwing Floo powder into the flames, she simply faded away as she walked into it.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled, and nodded in satisfaction. Clara was bound to remember where the Chamber was, sooner or later; whether she told him where it was or tried to go herself, if the monster that had killed poor Myrtle fifty years ago was still there, her magic would likely make short work of the beast. And this time he would make sure Remus was there, invisible, to bear witness what occurred, and to provide leverage against the witches when he requested their aid in finding Tom Riddle's Horcruxes.

There was an unexpected knock at his door. "Come on," Albus called, and the door opened to admit Remus Lupin. "Ah! Remus, I was just thinking of you."

Remus nodded, but didn't otherwise comment until he was seated in from the Headmaster's desk. "I may as well be blunt about this," he said without preamble. I won't be shadowing Harry or his aunt any longer."

"Oh, why is that?" Dumbledore asked quickly. This was exactly what he didn't need!

"I'm not sure what you've been trying to get me to see, but so far I've seen nothing out of the ordinary about either of them, outside of the fact that Harry is a much brighter boy than he lets on. His aunt is just eccentric. Do you know what she does in the evenings after dinner? She has a collection of hundreds of doorknobs in her carpetbag, and she spends entire evenings polishing them — and talking to them as well!"

"But you must reconsider, Remus," Dumbledore pleaded, becoming desperate. Remus was his best chance for gathering evidence about Clara and her family. "It is important for you to see what —" the words stuck in his throat, held back by the enchantment on him. "It's very important that you continue to observe."

Remus shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Headmaster." He stood. "If you could at least give me a clue what you want me to know about Harry and his aunt, I might reconsider. Until then, however, I will take my leave of you."

Dumbledore nodded with a heavy sigh. "If that is the way it must be, Remus, I understand."

"Thank you for that," Remus said. "If there's anything else I can do, please owl me." He turned and walked out of the office.

Dumbledore rubbed his forehead in frustration. Recent events seemed to be conspiring to defeat his plans. It was beginning to look like he would have to do the things that needed to be done himself.

 **=ooo=**

 _8:45 p.m._  
 _Hogwarts Library—_

Ron and Harry entered the Library in stealth mode, meaning that Harry had cast a spell that rendered them invisible. Madam Pince was there as usual, sitting at a desk where she could see anyone entering or leaving. Ron smirked at her as they passed by.

"This really is brilliant, Harry," Ron said when they were out of earshot of Pince. "Trying to move around while in that Cloak was a serious bother."

"Well, there were three of us the time we used it," Harry pointed out. "And neither you nor Hermione knew about me being a warlock, so using witchcraft was not a good choice. Now let's see if we can find Hermione; I'm pretty sure she's in here somewhere, since Lavender told you she wasn't in her dorm.

They moved silently through the rows and rows of books. The place was nearly deserted; most of the students at Hogwarts had better places to be than in the Library. Finally Harry spotted her in a small alcove, sitting at a table reading a book on Transfiguration. Several other books were stacked on the table as well, along with sheets of parchment and a quill. "Ready for this?" he asked Ron.

Ron nodded. "Let her rip." Harry gestured and the invisibility spell was canceled. They both stepped out of the shadows and into the alcove with Hermione. "Here you are," Ron said, as if he was surprised to see her.

Hermione looked up from her book. "Here I am," she answered. "But what are the two of you doing here? It's almost curfew."

"We've got the same curfew you do," Ron retorted. "I don't see you off in a rush to the common room."

"I'll study until it's five minutes before nine," Hermione fired back. "It takes about five minutes to go from the Library up to Gryffindor tower.

"So what are you studying?" Harry asked. He picked up a book from the table. It was a Charms textbook for fifth-years. "Getting a little ahead of yourself, don't you think?"

"I like reading," Hermione said. She put the Transfiguration book down. "So what do you two want?"

"I just want to know where you were at lunch this morning," Harry said. "You didn't come in the Great Hall until lunch was almost over."

Hermione crossed her arms, staring at Harry in annoyance. "Not that it's any of your business, Harry, I was delivering a message to Hagrid for Professor Lockhart."

"What was the message?" Harry asked. Hagrid hadn't said anything about a message from Hermione.

"I didn't look at it!" Hermione heatedly retorted. "It wasn't addressed to me."

"Sure you didn't take a quick peak?" Ron asked, hopeful.

"I'm sure, Ron," Hermione retorted. She glanced at her watch. "It's almost nine p.m. We better get up to the common room — if we get caught we'll likely lose House points, and I don't want to that."

Harry and Ron watched impatiently as Hermione put her things into her back pack, including several books from the table. "Don't worry, Ron," she snapped at him as he raised an eyebrow at what she was doing. "I've already checked them out of the Library with Madam Pince. Come on, then."

They walked quickly but quietly to the front of the Library. Madam Pince was at her desk, as usual, but she didn't seem to notice them at first. "Goodnight, ma'am," Hermione called to her as they headed to the doorway. Pince looked up and nodded at Hermione, but frowned when she saw Harry and Ron. Before she could say anything they hurried out into the hallway.

The hallway was dark and quiet. Harry moved ahead of Hermione and stopped, forcing her and Ron to do the same. "I think it's time you answered some questions we have for you."

" _Do_ you?" Hermione's expression went from neutral to suspicious in a split-second. "I wasn't aware I had to tell you anything about what I'm doing."

"Fair enough," Harry capitulated. "But at least tell us what you were doing today between the end of Defense class and the beginning of History."

"All right," Hermione said crossly "If I tell you, will you promise not to bother me about it anymore?"

"Er — sure," Harry quickly replied. He didn't want to, of course, but if he made the promise he'd have to keep it.

Hermione pointed upwards. "Let's get out of this hallway so Filch or hit cat won't find us."

She started walking and Ron and Harry had to jog to catch up with her. "Honestly, I don't know what the big deal is," Hermione continued as they climbed staircases and walked down dark hallways. "It's not like I'm out murdering people, Harry! You're really just biased against Professor Lockhart for giving more homework now than he did before."

"I don't think so," Harry objected. "Now, instead of being vain and self-centered, he's more reserved, business-like. It doesn't seem like someone like him could change his whole personality in less than a day."

"Well, I still think you're wrong ," Hermione shrugged, and they continued walking up to the seventh floor. As they approached a corner, they observed water on the floor. "What's going on?" Hermione exclaimed, then ran forward to see what was happening around the corner. Harry and Ron hurried after her.

They came upon the girls' toilet. Harry recognized it as the one they saw during the free day before classes began. Water was flowing under the door

"Oh, dear," Hermione gasped. "Someone must have gone into that bathroom and upset Myrtle! A couple of fourth-years told me that Myrtle doesn't like anyone poking about in it."

"That's an awful lot of water," Harry noticed. "Maybe a pipe broke or something like that. I think we should go in."

"Wait a second," Ron said, pointing to an object lying on the floor. "What's _that_?"

Harry, whose vision had been enhanced when he became a warlock said, Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh, _what_?" asked Hermione impatiently. "Tell us already!"

"It's Mrs. Norris," Harry said quietly. "She's lying on her side but her back is arched and all of her legs are sticking straight out. I think something bad happened to her. It looks like she was scared stiff."

They heard the distant sound of footfalls that became louder and louder until Professor Dumbledore appeared, followed closely by Professor McGonagall, Snape, and Mr. Filch. Dumbledore stopped as they neared the cat's body. "Oh dear," he said, looking down on it. Then he looked up, straight into Harry's eyes. "Harry, what have you done _now_?"


	16. Showdown

.

 **Chapter Sixteen**

 **Showdown**

 _Updated_ 3/18/2016

 **=ooo=**

" _I_ didn't do anything, Professor," Harry protested, annoyed that the Headmaster had accused him so quickly. "We were just going up to Gryffindor Tower when we found Mrs. —"

"MRS. NORRIS!" Filch shrieked, seeing his cat motionless on the floor. "What have they done to you?!" He dropped to his knees, cradling the cat in his arms. He looked up at Harry, his eyes wild with rage. "You killed my cat, boy!"

"No, he didn't!" Hermione stepped forward. "We found her like that!"

"A likely story!" Filch snapped. He looked up at Dumbledore. "Headmaster, I demand this boy be punished for this — this — murder!"

"Calm yourself, Argus," Dumbledore said quietly, placing a long-fingered hand on the caretaker's shoulder. Filch slumped, then broke down crying as he clutched the body of Mrs. Norris against him. "First, let me examine Mrs. Norris to see what has happened to her."

"Isn't it obvious?!" Filch croaked, his body wracked with sobs. "She's stiff as a board!" He jabbed a quivering finger in Harry's direction. "It _had_ to be Potter what done this! He's been behind all the problems we've had recently!"

"That's not true!" Harry instantly objected. "Hermione and Ron will tell you —"

"They'll tell us whatever you want them to!" Filch shouted over him. His rheumy eyes were glaring daggers at Harry. "You've been nothing but trouble since you come here! You an' that 'uncle' of yours! Come in here an' make a mockery of the rules, flouting them whenever you can! It's not right!"

"What is going on down here?" a new voice interjected itself, and Harry grimaced to himself as he recognized it. Professor Lockhart was walking toward them. He stopped as he drew alongside Professor Dumbledore. "Well, this is very interesting," he said, surveying the scene. "What's happened?"

"My cat's DEAD, that's what happening!" Filch shouted, then began sobbing again, stroking Mrs. Norris as if that would bring her back.

Dumbledore spoke quietly. "Gilderoy, your office is just upstairs. Might we retire there to examine Mrs. Norris more closely?"

"Of course, Headmaster," Lockhart agreed. "By all means — this seems quite serious." He looked at Harry, Ron and Hermione. "Perhaps you three should go to your common room."

"No," Dumbledore said. "They should see this as well."

"As you wish," Lockhart acquiesced.

They gathered Filch up and walked him, still clutching Mrs. Norris to his bosom, up the stairs to Lockhart's office. They had Filch place Mrs. Norris on Lockhart's desk, and Dumbledore bent over the cat, staring at it closely and touching it carefully in several places. McGonagall was looking at the cat closely, while Snape watched from a short distance, his eyes flickering every few seconds to Harry, an unreadable but unpleasant expression on his face. Lockhart simply stood by and watched everyone.

"D'you think they believe us?" Ron whispered to Harry. "That we didn't have anything to do with this?"

"We couldn't have," Hermione whispered. "We just came from the Library — we can have Madam Pince vouch for us if they don't believe —"

"Quiet, you three," Snape ordered curtly.

"Harry," Dumbledore said quietly. He had finished examining Mr. Norris. "Do you know of any way to reverse this condition?"

"Of course he does!" Filch snapped. "He's the one what done it!"

Lockhart said nothing, but regarded Harry with a curious gaze.

"Peace, Argus," Dumbledore ordered. His blue eyes returned to Harry. "Do you?"

It was a loaded question, Harry knew. "I'm just a first-year, Professor," he said. Snape snorted. Harry ignored it. "It looks like something serious has happened to the cat."

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said sternly. "You are not answering the question." Lockhart smiled knowingly. There was a barely audible gasp from Hermione.

"I can't answer the question, Professor," Harry said. "I'm not sure what happened to Mrs. Norris. Do _you_ know?"

"She was Petrified," Dumbledore answered.

"By what?" Hermione and Ron both asked.

"That is as-yet unclear," Dumbledore replied. Harry knew that was a lie. If the Headmaster knew what had happened to Mrs. Norris he also had to know what caused it. "So I ask again, Harry: do you know of any way to reverse this condition?"

All of the adults were looking at him now. Filch was glaring at him with barely-controlled anger. Lockhart was watching Harry closely while the three professors seemed to be waiting for his reply. "Without knowing what caused the petrifaction, I would have no idea how it might be reversed," Harry said. He glanced toward Snape. "Though I understand there are potions that might cure it, such as a Mandrake Restorative Draught. Am I correct, Professor Snape?"

Snape gave him a contemptuous look. "It would appear so, Potter," he drawled, in an icy tone. He looked at McGonagall. "I see no reason for these three to remain any longer."

McGonagall nodded. "You are to return to your dorm," she said flatly to them. Harry, Hermione and Ron turned and walked away, heading to the nearest staircase.

When they were on the next floor Hermione turned to Harry. "Harry, I can't believe it!"

"Can't believe what?" Harry asked, trudging along the corridor, trying to decide what he ought to do next. It shouldn't be that difficult to figure out, but lately he felt a bit apathetic about the whole situation at the school, like it didn't really matter. "What do you think was happening?"

"They were trying to trick you into revealing yourself a warlock!" Hermione said.

Harry gave her an annoyed glance. "Oh, you think so? What gave you the first clue?" But the expression on Hermione's face was one of fear, not anger or annoyance at his tone.

"It was Professor Lockhart," she said softly. "He was listening to everything you said, like he was analyzing it. I — I think they were asking you those questions for his benefit."

Harry and Ron both stopped and looked at her. "What does Lockhart know about Harry?" Ron asked suspiciously. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing!" Hermione said quickly. "I promised I wouldn't tell _anyone_ about Harry —!"

"Yeah, well Lockhart wouldn't care about your promise!" Ron retorted. "How do we know he didn't make you tell him stuff without your knowing?"

"Why would he do that?" Hermione challenged. "Professor Lockhart fights _against_ the Dark forces —"

"Then why would Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape be trying to make me reveal information about myself in front of him?" Harry asked. Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She turned away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know _what_ — if anything — he knows. But it just doesn't make any sense!" she cried, stamping her foot angrily. "He's supposed to be _good_ —!"

"Why don't you stop hero-worshipping him for a moment," Harry suggested. "And start looking rationally at how he's acted since he first came here." Harry put up a finger. "The first day he was here he put all of his books on his class reading list. _Then_ , he released a cage full of Cornish pixies in our classroom, and cowered in fear as they terrorized him until _you_ stopped them. Then he ran out of the room and left the job of putting them back in the cage to me and Ron!

"For the first week of class he was an absolute disaster, teacher-wise. Yeah, most of the girls in school went all gooey over him and thought he was brilliant, _you_ included, but the truth was, he wasn't doing anything anybody would call 'teaching,' was he?" Hermione's expression was pained but she didn't object. Harry began to hope he was finally getting through to her.

"Then," Harry went on. "About a week later Ron and I found a book in my book bag, a fifty-year old diary with only the name 'T. M. Riddle' written on the first page and the rest of the book a blank. I was going to show that book to Lockhart, to see what he made of it —"

"Probably trying to trick him, somehow," Hermione muttered unhappily.

"Yes, in fact," Harry nodded. "By then I was convinced Lockhart knew almost nothing about Defense, that he'd faked his way through his adventures, somehow, and I wanted to see what he'd do with an unusual item like that diary. But the last anyone saw of it was when _you_ took the book to show to Lockhart."

"But I _didn't_!" Hermione insisted, though not nearly as forcefully as she had in the past. "I don't remember anything at all like that happening!"

"But _I_ remember you asking me if you could," Ron spoke up. "In fact, you told me that's what you planned to do!"

"But I don't remember saying that!" Hermione cried anxiously.

"Well, I do!" Ron retorted.

"So it seems like Lockhart's got the book," Harry concluded. "And that's around the time he began acting differently."

"Because the book's cursed," Ron put it. "It's got to be!"

"But we all handled it," Hermione objected. "And nothing happened to us."

"Except that you don't remember giving it to Lockhart," Ron pointed out.

"And I have a lot more resistance to magic because of my witchcraft," Harry added. "Plus, Ron never really handled it much."

"Too right," Ron said, relieved. "I've heard too much about cursed books to just pick one up I don't know anything about!"

"So, what are you going to do?" Hermione wanted to know.

Harry stood still, thinking for several seconds. "I'm going to talk to Dumbledore," he said at last. " _Alone_ ," he added, when both Ron and Hermione nodded like they planned to accompany him. "I don't want him holding anything back when we talk, and he might not be able to say anything if you're there."

"You could make us invisible," Ron suggested, trying to find a way to go along with him. "He'd never know we were there."

"But my aunt Endora's witchcraft might," Harry objected, shaking his head. "If it senses you're there, it might keep Dumbledore from talking. Don't worry, I'll tell you everything that happens." He started forward, gesturing for them to follow. "Now come on, we better get to the dorm before some other teacher finds us out after curfew."

 **=ooo=**

Albus Dumbledore sat stiffly behind his desk in his office, his eyes fixed and staring at the man who sat easily across from him, smiling the smile of the victorious. Dumbledore sensed, somehow, that this was not the normal order of things, that it should be _he_ who was smiling, with benevolence rather than vindictiveness, with mercy rather than judgement; but that was, alas, not the way of things here and now. He could sit quietly and respond to the man's questions, but very little else.

The man across from him held a small object — a glass tube, inside of which was the figure of a man dressed in wizard's robes, with the image of a chalk-white face on the back of his head, a face with blood-red eyes and slits where a nose should be. The image of Quirinus Quirrell and of his master, Lord Voldemort. "This is quite droll, Dumbledore," the man was saying, holding up the tube containing Quirrell and his master. The Ministry believes that Quirrell is off somewhere convalescing after a breakdown, brought on by —" the man shrugged. "Well, no one seems to know, really, and you were less than forthcoming with specifics."

"I was as forthcoming as I could be under the circumstances," Dumbledore answered woodenly.

"Ah, yes," the man sneered. "That knowledge is held in some kind of Fidelius, so you say." He shook his head. "You, the Transfiguration professor and the Potions Master all seem affected by it. No matter how I have questioned them, or you, none of you can tell me anything useful about its details. Quite a challenge to my Legilimency skills, I will admit that much."

"Then how did you find out about Quirrell?" Dumbledore asked, gesturing to his black cabinet, which now stood open, the treasure it held now in the other man's grasp.

"Not important," the man shrugged, his blond hair bouncing about his head. "But the fact that I do know has some rather serious consequences for you, does it not?"

"How so, Gilderoy?" Dumbledore asked, blandly.

Lockhart looked at the glass tube containing Quirrell's body. "Well, it proves you are holding Professor Quirrell here against his will, rather than him being off somewhere convalescing. And that face on the back of his head — after all, my dear Albus, there is no mistaking who that face belongs to, is there? You should have turned him over to the Ministry once you know who was possessing poor Professor Quirrell."

"The Ministry is convinced Lord Voldemort is dead," Dumbledore replied. "It was too dangerous to turn Quirinus over to them."

"Like _this_?" Lockhart held up the tube. "This is powerful magic, Dumbledore — I suspect it could be beyond even _you_ to bind a wizard in this way."

"And yet, I do have him," Dumbledore pointed out.

"The fact that he was in your cabinet is not proof that you bound him so," Lockhart countered. "But for now…" he held up the tube, then released it, and it floated from his hand over to the black cabinet, settling on the shelf where Lockhart had originally found it. As it floated across the room, a pair of dark, beady eyes watched intently from the shadows of the lowest shelf of a nearby bookcase, tracing its path. The cabinet doors closed "For now," Lockhart told him. "I will allow you to keep it safe for me, until I have need of it." The beady eyes faded back into the shadows.

"Gilderoy," Dumbledore murmured. "No good can come of you meddling with Quirrell's body, knowing who else is within it."

Lockhart smiled broadly. "Oh, I beg to differ, Dumbledore. Imagine the gratitude of the wizarding community when I deliver the Dark Lord to the Ministry of Magic, bound and helpless. Another illustrious victory in the long career of Gilderoy Lockhart, a career of helping the helpless and pushing back the forces of evil. It should earn me an Order of Merlin, First Class, don't you think?"

"I will not allow you to capitalize on such a deception —" Dumbledore began.

"You will have no choice," Lockhart laughed. "No more than you do now, you or McGonagall or Snape. All three of you are in my power."

"For now," Dumbledore said, softly.

"For _ever_!" Lockhart said forcefully. He stood, walking around to stand behind the Headmaster, who remained in his chair, motionless. "It was a simple matter to have the groveling creatures who prepare your meals add certain potions to them, potions that have made the entire school subservient to my will. None of you can resist my commands, especially when I use the power of the Imperius Curse to enforce them."  
"It is only a matter of time, Gilderoy," the Headmaster murmured, his words defiant in a way his will could not be.

"Time you do not have," Lockhart gloated. "The entire school has been dosed with my will-sapping potion, including the Potter boy. "What you have been so ineptly trying to tell me about Potter, his mudblood companion has already revealed to me. Very shortly, I will send my legacy against him, to destroy him. Then, when Gilderoy Lockhart routs the Monster of Slytherin and saves the school when not even her Headmaster could do so, the Ministry will appoint _me_ Headmaster."

"To what end, Gilderoy?" Dumbledore seemed genuinely surprised by his plans. "You were never interested in that type of power — you have always wished for notoriety, to be adored by your public. What has changed —" but even as he said these words Dumbledore realized what else Lockhart had said, about the Monster of Slytherin and his legacy. "Ah, I see I have underestimated you, Tom."

Lockhart grinned maliciously. "Very good, old man. You see the truth at last. And now you understand why you must lose." Lockhart strode to the door. "Sleep for now, Dumbledore, I will return tomorrow to awaken you and to begin taking this school away from you." He exited the office as the Headmaster's head slumped to his chest and he began snoring softly.

Scabbers inched forward to the front edge of the bookshelf, listening to the Headmaster snore. It had taken him weeks to work up the nerve to leave the Gryffindor dorm and find a way into the Headmaster's office, fortunately at just the right time to discover where the Dark Lord was hidden, but now he had to contend with that self-absorbed git Lockhart, who'd begun attending Hogwart's in Scabber's fifth year at Hogwarts. Scabbers had heard more than he'd ever care to know about the man from Molly Weasley, Percy and Ron's mum, who adored him.

What Lockhart was planning complicated things greatly. He would have to be stopped, but if possible in such a way that Scabbers could rescue the Dark Lord from Dumbledore's clutches. It might mean he might have to give up his cover as Scabbers altogether, but the prospect of the Dark Lord's gratitude for rescuing him was too great a temptation. Scabbers crept along a wall until he reached the crevice that allowed him access to the room, and vanished through it.

A few moments later Harry suddenly appeared in the office. "Professor," he said, seeing the Headmaster at his desk. "It's time we talked about a few things —" He stopped when he saw Dumbledore's head was nodding forward on his chest. Stepping around the desk, he shook the old wizard's shoulder gently. "Sir? Sir?"

"Mmng," Dumbledore murmured. But he appeared to be unable to fully awaken. When Harry shook him again he slumped back in his chair, his head lolling from side to side.

"Sorry, Professor," Harry muttered, then cast a powerful wake up spell on him. Dumbledore sat bolt upright in his chair, his eyes wide with surprise. "Are you awake now?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time in a long while. He looked at Harry, his blue eyes filled with surprise, then suddenly smiled. "Yes, Harry," he said, his voice clear. "I am indeed. I believe whatever you just did helped to counter the effects of a potion that was inhibiting my faculties."

"A potion?" Harry looked skeptical at that. "What, did Snape slip you something?"

" _Professor_ Snape, Harry," Dumbledore cautioned him. "And no, it wasn't him — it was Professor Lockhart. I fear poor Gilderoy has become unhinged."

Harry nodded knowingly. "I'm not surprised, sir. I figured something was up ever since he became so popular with everyone in school."

Dumbledore stood. "I must speak with Professors McGonagall and Snape — in fact, with all of the Heads of House, in order to inform them that the students have been dosed with a potion that inhibits their will — you are included in that as well, Harry."

Could a wand-wizard potion affect him to that degree, Harry wondered. He didn't think so, but if he'd been taking it without knowing about it, it might be possible. It might also explain why he'd felt so listless for the past few weeks.

"And we must locate Professor Lockhart at once and stop him!" Dumbledore continued. He moved toward the doors leading from his office.

"Wait," Harry said, holding up a hand. "Before we talk to the other teachers or to Lockhart, I have a few questions for _you_."

"For _me_?" Dumbledore waved a hand dismissively. "Harry, we don't have time for this —" He suddenly froze in place as Harry pointed a finger at him.

"I think we do, Professor," he said quietly. He gestured toward the Headmaster's chair, and Dumbledore slid across the floor and dropped into it. "For starters," he said, as the Headmaster found himself able to move once again. "There's something inside the castle that petrified Mrs. Norris, and I want to know what it is. I heard it moving around earlier when Malfoy tried to take my new broom from me."

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore nodded. "Minerva informed me she had purchased a new Nimbus 2000 for you! I hope you will find it satisfactory for Quidditch."

"Nice try," Harry replied dryly. "But I'm not letting you change the subject. What kind of creature can Petrify others?"

Dumbledore sighed to himself. "Mrs. Norris was fortunate," he finally admitted. "She probably glimpsed the creature indirectly, perhaps in the water that was on the floor of the lavatory and hallway."

"What was it?" Harry pressed. "What creature?"

"A basilisk," Dumbledore admitted. "I believe that is the creature that was in the Chamber of Secrets when it was first opened, nearly fifty years ago."

"A basilisk?" Harry shook his head. "I don't know anything about them." He hadn't come across such a creature in his readings of the Book of Magic — that meant it was pretty dangerous creature, since the more powerful ones were mentioned later in the book. "What do you know about them, Professor?"  
"A basilisk," Dumbledore began, "also known as the King of Serpents, is created from a magically fertilized chicken's egg that has been hatched beneath a toad. It is capable of growing to tremendous size and can live for hundreds of years. It has several methods of killing: large ones can crush you within its coils, and it has fangs containing highly toxic and poisonous venom. Finally, its gaze is lethal — if you are fixed by its direct stare you will be instantly killed."

Harry took all of this in silently, then asked, "What happened fifty years ago?"

"Ah," Dumbledore lowered his head in shame. "The Monster was awakened by a student who found the Chamber of Secrets. Until that time it was widely believed, even by myself, that the Chamber was only a legend."

"Professor Binns said it was believed that only the Heir of Slytherin could open the Chamber of Secrets," Harry remembered. "Didn't you know who that was?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "The student in question had been raised in an orphanage. There was no way to determine his lineage."

"Who was it?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore did not want to say, but he feared Harry might call one of his relatives if he refused to answer. "The student was Tom Riddle," he murmured.

"Tom Riddle?" Harry repeated, surprised. " _T. M._ Riddle?" Dumbledore nodded. "Crud," Harry muttered. "A few weeks ago I found a diary with that name in it!"

Dumbledore's eyes sparked with interest. "Indeed? Harry, I need that book immediately! It could be very important in locating Lord Voldemort!"

"I don't have it anymore," Harry demurred. "Hermione took it to show it Professor Lockhart. Nobody's seen it since."

"All the more reason for us to find and question Professor Lockhart!" Dumbledore said urgently. "I cannot emphasize this strongly enough, Harry!"

Harry had already decided on another course, however. "We need to find and stop that basilisk first," he said. "I want to talk to Aunt Clara." Harry raised his eyes upward. "Aunt Clara, could you come to the Headmaster's office, please?"

Aunt Clara appeared a few moments later, wobbling a bit unsteadily as she materialized. In her hands was the carpetbag she always carried with her. "Oh dear, oh dear! This just isn't my night for getting any rest," she muttered to herself.

"Sorry, Aunt Clara, but we've got a problem," Harry said apologetically. "What do you know about basilisks?"

"Basilisks?" Clara frowned, shaking her head. "Nasty creatures. I never cared much for them. They've always been so — so negative about things."

"I think we've got one infesting the school," Harry said. "Any ideas on how we can get rid of it?"

Clara took on a pensive expression. "Um, um, well, we could try talking to it, if we knew where it was," she suggested. "But as I've said, they're rather negative creatures — always talking about killing and eating things. It's rather depressing, really," she added matter-of-factly.

"There is no way of locating it within Hogwarts," Dumbledore stated.

Harry looked at him. "There actually is," he disagreed. "Assuming the creature has its own identity." He gestured and Fred and George Weasley appeared, both dressed in their pyjamas. In Fred's hand was a large, folded piece of parchment.

"Um, hello," they both said, looking around in confusion. "Where are we, please?"

"You're in Professor Dumbledore's office," Harry said. "And good, you've got the Map with you! We need a little help locating something in the castle. Would you lay it out on the desk, please?"

"What is this?" Dumbledore asked as Fred and George spread open the parchment on his desk.

"This is the Marauder's Map," Fred said, with a disapproving look at Harry. "Harry, this was supposed to be our secret!"

"Can't be helped," Harry said. "Our need is great." He gestured toward the parchment. "Go on."

Fred took his wand out of his pyjamas. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he said, tapping the parchment. The map of the castle began filling in immediately. "What are we looking for?" George asked, watching as the Headmaster's eyes widened in surprise.

"A basilisk," Harry said, and the Weasleys gasped in surprise.

"Bloody hell, Harry!" George said to him. "You sure have some interesting things running around Hogwarts!" He turned back to the Map. "Where is the basilisk?" he asked it. But there was no flash identifying the creature's location.

"Where is Gilderoy Lockhart?" Harry asked. Nothing happened again. "Both of them appear to be off the Map," Harry said.

"Or they're somewhere the Map doesn't know about," Fred offered. "There are certain places on the Map that never show anything there. Like this spot." He pointed to a space on the seventh floor opposite where the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy hung. "We've never seen anyone or anything in this area, even though lots of students pass by here every day."

Harry said nothing, knowing that was where the Room of Requirement was located. Apparently Lupin and whoever helped him write the Map didn't know about that room.

"The creature might be in the Chamber of Secrets," Dumbledore surmised. "And perhaps Lockhart as well. Harry, can you —" but the words stuck in his throat. He glanced at Fred and George. "If you gentlemen will excuse us…?"

"Oh, come on!" Fred and George both objected. "We just helped you, didn't we?"

"Technically, no," Harry shook his head. "Aunt Clara, can you send them back to their dorm room, without their memories of being here?"

"No fair!" Fred said indignantly even as Clara gestured at him and George. "Harry, you owe —" the two of them and the Marauder's Map vanished.

"Aunt Clara," Harry said after they were gone. "We _really_ need to know where the Chamber of Secrets is. Will you try to remember?"

"Alright," Clara nodded, and her expression twisted with the effort of trying to recall the memory. She shook her head. "Sorry, I don't seem to be coming up with anything, Harry."

"I have some Memory Restorative Draughts," Dumbledore suggested. "You could try one — it might help you remember." Without waiting for a response the Headmaster went over to his black cabinet and opened one of the doors, taking out a potion vial. On the top shelf of the cabinet Harry could see the clear tube holding the shrunken form of Quirinus Quirrell. "Try this," Dumbledore said, handing the vial to Aunt Clara. "Concentrate on remembering where the Chamber of Secrets is as you drink it."

Clara looked at the vial a bit dubiously, but held it up like a toast. "Well, down the hatch," she said, and drank it. She shuddered slightly. "Oh my, that tasted horrible," she said, making a face.

"But did it work?" Dumbledore asked anxiously.

Clara cocked her head, thinking for a few moments. "Well," she said, after a moment. "Oh, well, perhaps — it seems to me that the Chamber is… er, no. I've got nothing. Sorry," she apologized. Dumbledore slumped, disappointed.

"We need a more powerful potion," Harry said. "Aunt Clara, can you take me to the Apothecary? Perhaps he'll have something."

"Who is the Apothecary?" Dumbledore asked.

"He's the warlock that makes our potions," Clara told him. "Harry, I'm not sure we should go see him. He can be rather…"

"Eccentric?" Harry supplied.

"Inappropriate," Clara corrected. "Samantha has warned me about him. She said I should never go see him alone."

"You won't be alone," Harry pointed out. "I'll be with you."

"Well, that's true," Clara acknowledged. "All right, then, I suppose it's alright."

"While you're gone I'll alert the other teachers to the situation," Dumbledore said.

Harry shook his head. "I'd rather you didn't, Professor. You know about Aunt Clara and me — the other teachers don't, with the exception of Snape and McGonagall."

"Harry, the safety of the students is paramount in situations like this—" Dumbledore began.

"If you really believed that you wouldn't have left a basilisk loose in this school for all those years," Harry pointed out. "Sorry, Professor, but you'll just have to wait here until we get back."

"Harry, that is quite impossible," Dumbledore shook his head. "I must insist that —"

"Yeah, yeah," Harry muttered, snapping his fingers and freezing the Headmaster in place. "But _I_ insist you remain here. Aunt Clara, can you get us to the Apothecary's?"

"I believe so, Harry," Clara nodded. She stepped next to Harry, raising her hand as she spoke. " _Zoolum, pathalon, etgar glom_!" She and Harry vanished in a spray of sparks and smoke.

When they reappeared Harry found himself and Clara on an old, cobblestone road, next to a dilapidated store front with dusty windows and old, faded paint peeling off its stone walls. He looked down the lane, but there seemed to be nothing else around — everything but the store seemed to be fuzzy, indistinct. Looking up, Harry couldn't even make out any details in the sky above them — it all seemed to be nothing but gray mist.

Clara sighed contentedly. "It's nice to be home, isn't it?" She looked at Harry and started. "Oh — sorry, I forgot you weren't born here, Harry."

"Is this the Eternal Realm?" Harry asked.

"Yes, home sweet home," Clara nodded. "I'd been staying here for a while, until I learned that you had come to live with Samantha and Darrin. I decided I'd been here long enough, and popped out to see you."

"I remember," Harry smiled. "It was really interesting meeting you that first time."

"Yes, indeed," Clara agreed. "And I'm sorry I accidentally turned you into a chicken."

Harry shrugged. "No problem," he said, grinning as he remembered walking around pecking at the carpet for insects. That had been an eventful day.

Clara pointed to a nearby wall, where there was wooden sign saying,

 **Postlethwaite's Potent Potions**

"We'd better see if the Apothecary has what we want," she said. She and Harry went inside the shop. An old bell jingled with a tinny sound as they entered the shop. It wasn't very big inside, but the shop was full of shelves filled with rows and rows of potion bottles. There were other shelves with glass containers filled with bat wings and snake skins, eyes of various animals and all sorts of plants and other things Harry decided he didn't want to know about. There was a countertop displaying vials of different potions, with labels indicating they could make a person taller, or more beautiful, or younger-looking. "Lots of different things here, aren't there?" Harry murmured.

"Ah! What have we here?" An older warlock had appeared in a doorway leading into the back of the shop. He was bespectacled, with curly, graying hair, and was wearing a plaid shirt, suspenders and a bow tie. "Clara!" he said in recognition. "How lovely to see you again!"

"Oh, hello," Clara said, startled to be recognized. "Oh, um, how — how are you?"

The Apothecary gave her a sly smile. "You don't remember me, do you?"  
"Er, well-well, I-er, that is, I-I-I I'm not exactly sure — no," Clara shook her head.

"That's sort of the problem," Harry interjected himself. "Aunt Clara here needs a memory potion. She's forgotten something she really needs to remember."

"Her long-lost love for me, no doubt," the old warlock said, smiling at her dreamily. "Isn't that right, cutie?"

Harry made a face. _This bloke is really piling it on thick_ , he thought to himself. "Could be," he said, quickly, hoping it would convince the Apothecary to help them. "Do you have something we can use?"

The Apothecary beamed at them. "I'm sure I've got just what she needs," he chuckled. He went over to the shelf behind the counter and began looking at the potions on the shelves there. "Let's see," he muttered. "Age relaxants, fever cures, marriage balms… ah, here we are! Memory restoratives! He took down a vial of green liquid. This ought to bring your aunt back around, sonny boy." However, instead of handing Clara the vial, he held it tightly wrapped in both hands. "But first, we should discuss the matter of my fee."

"Your fee?" Harry muttered. "My cousin Samantha told me you did this as a hobby, not for money."

"Well, my fee isn't so much money," the Apothecary cackled. "It's more like — a _trade_."

"Uh oh," Harry said.

"Oh my," Clara said.

"Oh come on!" the Apothecary whined. "Why do you witches all sound like that? It's not that bad! All I want is one little kiss!"

"Is that all?" Clara suddenly beamed at him. "Well, then —" she took hold of both his shoulders and pressed her lips to his, so suddenly the old warlock was momentarily taken aback — as was Harry, who stared in shock as Aunt Clara locked lips with the old man.

Aunt Clara let go, and the Apothecary staggered for a moment in surprise. "How was that?" she asked.

"Wow," the Apothecary said, handing her the vial without another word.

"Thank you," Aunt Clara said, taking it from him.

"What is it you're trying to remember?" the Apothecary asked.

"We're looking for a basilisk," Clara answered. "I'm trying to remember where it might be hidden."

"Basilisks are nasty creatures," the Apothecary cautioned them. "Do you have any eye gaze protection?"

"Do you have something that will help?" Harry asked, hopefully.

"I've just the thing, right over here." The Apothecary stepped over to a dusty shelf containing a box with "ONE-WAY SPECTACLES" written on the side. "These will do the trick for you. Just put on a pair of these spectacles and you can stare at a basilisk all day long. Its gaze will be completely harmless to you."

"How much?" Harry asked, warily, wondering how many more kisses Aunt Clara would have to give him.

"No charge," the old warlock said, handing each of them a pair. "I haven't moved any of these things in centuries. Nice doing business with you." He smiled at Clara. " _Especially_ you, sunshine."

"Nice doing business with you," Clara replied pleasantly, though there was a look of mild confusion on her face.

"May we have a couple more?" Harry asked. "Just in case?"

The Apothecary gave him a look, but shrugged. "Sure. Here you go." He handed Harry two more spectacles, then winked at Clara. "See you again soon, cutie?"

"Oh well, perhaps, perhaps!" Clara replied, blushing. "Well, toodle-loo. Harry?" She took Harry's arm in hers and raised her other hand in a quick gesture. The two of them vanished.

"Wow," the Apothecary said again, touching his lips in remembrance, then looked upward at the ceiling. "Don't be a stranger!" he said into the ether.

When Clara and Harry materialized in Dumbledore's office the Headmaster was still frozen in the same position they'd left him. Harry snapped his fingers at the old wizard.

"— that you allow me to contact the other teachers," Dumbledore finished, then looked at Clara holding the potion. "You've already gone, haven't you?" he asked, resignedly.

"Afraid so, sir," Harry said, smiling. "The good news is, we have a potion that should help Aunt Clara remember where the Chamber of Secrets is. Aunt Clara, why don't you take it now, I want to find the Basilisk and get rid of it. And Lockhart, too, if he had anything to do with setting it free."

Aunt Clara unstopped the vial. "Well, here goes," she said, tipping it up and draining the contents. "Oh," she said a moment later. "I'm starting to remember something… oh yes! I remember now!"

"Where the Chamber of Secrets is?" Dumbledore asked hopefully.

"No, where my 1832 pewter Larskshire door knob is," Clara said happily. "I've been looking for it for some time now! Oh yes, and I remember where my old umbrella is, too! I've been looking for it for ages! Oh, how wonderful!" she gushed.

Harry sighed with frustration. "That's great, Aunt Clara, but we need to know where the Chamber of Secrets is!"

"Just a moment, just a moment," Clara held up a hand, looking off into the distance as if trying to recall something. "Yes, I think I know where the entrance is," she said, slowly. "Salazar put the entrance in a room on the first floor of the castle."

"Where on the first floor?" Harry asked quickly.

"It was just above the Great Hall," Clara replied, remembering. "Not far from the grand staircase."

"Then let's go," Harry said. "We can start at the grand staircase on the first floor and go from there." He snapped his fingers and the three of them vanished, reappearing a moment later on the first floor next to the grand staircase. There was a long wall opposite the top of the stairs. "That's where the Great Hall is," Harry said, pointing at the wall. "That room has to be around here somewhere." They walked a short distance to the nearest intersection, where Harry found the door to the girl's restroom that had flooded earlier.

"Could that be it?" he asked, looking at Clara.

Clara was nodding confidently. "Yes, I remember now. It was a chamber pot room at the time," she said. "There were drains to pour the waste down when you emptied the chamber pots."  
"It has been modernized over the years," Dumbledore added. "But this is the room where —" he stopped speaking, looking uncomfortable.

"Where what, Professor?" Harry asked. He suddenly made a connection. "Hermione told me a ghost named Myrtle haunts this bathroom. Why would a ghost haunt a _bathroom_ , of all things?"

"This is where poor Myrtle Warren died," Dumbledore said sadly. "She was hiding in there after one of her friends teased her about her glasses, then something dreadful happened and she was killed."

"Something dreadful like, a basilisk?" Harry guessed. Dumbledore nodded mutely. "Well, that explains where it's been getting into the school. We just have to figure out _how_." He stepped forward, walking into the room, and Clara and Dumbledore followed him.

It was even darker inside the bathroom than the hallway, if that was possible. There was a row of old, chipped sinks along one wall, with a cracked and spotty mirror on the wall above them. Opposite the sinks were a row of wooden stalls, the doors on most of them flaking and scratched — one was dangling off its hinges. There were a few stubs of candles along the walls, but only one or two were lit, and they burned low in their holders. The floor was damp and shiny with what Harry supposed was the water that had spilled earlier that evening.

"What do _you_ want?" A girl had appeared from one of the stalls, passing through the door rather opening it, and was staring crossly at Harry. She was squat, Harry saw, with lank hair and a fringe over her forehead, dressed in a ghostly uniform and wearing large round horn-rimmed glasses. "You're not a girl. This is a girl's bathroom!" she berated him.

"Sorry," Harry said. "Are you Myrtle Warren?"

"Who else would I be, stupid boy?" Myrtle snapped at him. "Hasn't anyone told you about me? This is _my_ bathroom, so clear off! I don't feel like talking to anyone!"

"Oh my dear," Clara stepped forward, putting an arm around Myrtle's shoulders, as if she could actually touch her ghostly body. "I was so sorry to hear about your unfortunate demise. It was truly a tragedy."

Myrtle seemed a bit taken aback by Clara's sympathy, but she wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to capitalize on it. "It _was_ ," she nodded vigorously. "I was struck down in the prime of my youth! It was _terrible_ ," she sobbed. "I don't even know what killed me, really!"

"Do you remember what happened, my dear?" Clara asked solicitously.

"Oh, it was dreadful," Myrtle said in hushed tones, though she had gone from crying to beaming excitedly. "It was right in there." She pointed at the stall with the door hanging loose. "I remember because I was hiding in there because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. I had the door locked and I was crying. Then I heard someone come in the bathroom. They came right over to where I was and said something funny."

"Funny how?" Harry asked.

"It was strange," Myrtle shrugged. "A different language, I think it must have been. Then I realized it was a boy that was speaking and I unlocked the door to tell him to go use his own toilet, and then —" Myrtle looked back and forth between Harry and Clara, her face shining as she swelled importantly. "I _died_."

"What happened?" both Harry and Clara asked.

"No idea," Myrtle said, her voice hushed once again. "I just remember seeing a pair of great, big yellow eyes." Harry glanced back at Dumbledore, who nodded. "My whole body sort of seized up," Myrtle continued. "And then I came back again. I realized I was a ghost and I was going to haunt Olive Hornby for teasing me! Oh, she was sorry she ever laughed at my glasses, I can tell you that!"

"Where, exactly, did you see the eyes?" Harry asked, trying to get as close as possible to where the basilisk had appeared.

Myrtle pointed vaguely toward the sink in front of the stall she'd been in. "Somewhere about there," she said.

Dumbledore strode over to the sink, examining it carefully. It looked like an ordinary sink to Harry, but there had to be _something_ magical about it! "The faucets don't work," Myrtle supplied helpfully. "They never have."

"Clara," Dumbledore said. "Are you sure this is the room Salazar Slytherin used?"

"Well-well, it-it certainly seems like the one," Clara muttered. "But it's been a very long time, you know."

"What are you looking for?" Myrtle asked. Nobody answered her. "This is my bathroom, after all!" she said petulantly, with a little stamp of her foot that only passed into the floor without a sound.

Harry turned to her. "We're looking for the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets," he said.

Myrtle giggled. "Are you joking?" she laughed. "That's only a legend!"

"Unfortunately not, my dear," Dumbledore spoke up, looking away from the sink for a moment. "I'm afraid you were a casualty of the Monster of Slytherin the day you died. The boy that was in this bathroom called it up from the Chamber of Secrets to set it loose on the school. But when you were killed before it was even released, he must've panicked and sent it back to the Chamber. He then framed another student for your death."

"Oh." Myrtle looked stunned by that news. "But nobody ever told me!"

"So it must have come up here," Harry said, pointing to the sink. "But _how_ did he open it?"

"Tom was a Parselmouth," Dumbledore said. "That lends credence to his claim that he was the Heir of Slytherin. It is possible he said something in that tongue that activated the entrance."

"When I was at the zoo last summer I was able to understand what a snake was saying to me," Harry told him. "Does that mean anything?"

"Witches and warlocks can understand what all animals are saying, Harry," Clara reminded him.

"But this was before I was a warlock," Harry said. "I had just met Samantha and Electra, and we were standing in front of a boa constrictor's cage in the lizard house. The boa spoke and I could understand it."

"Were you able to speak to it, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, hopefully. Harry shook his head. All of them turned to stare at the sink. A moment later Harry pointed to one of the copper faucets.

"What's that?" he asked. Scratched into the faucet was the tiny image of a snake. Dumbledore examined it carefully.

"Perhaps that marks the entrance," he surmised. "We simply need to find a way to make it open."

Harry thought for long seconds, trying to come up with something, when he suddenly slapped himself on the temple. "What an idiot," he muttered. "Am I a warlock or not?" He pointed at the sink and said, "Open up."

The sink shuddered, then slowly began to lower into the floor, revealing a pipe several feet wide, wide enough for a man to slide down it. Harry traced it downward with his warlock senses, but it went far beyond his ability to follow it to its other end.

"Well, there's our entrance," he said to Dumbledore. "Are you coming with us, Professor?"

Dumbledore was staring down into the pipe. "Are you sure there is no other way, Harry? This could prove to be rather — uncomfortable for both Clara and myself."

"True," Harry had to agree. He sighed. "Well, I can go down the pipe myself. When I get to the other end I can contact Clara and you and her can pop down to join me. Sound reasonable?"

"Eminently," Dumbledore said, relieved. Clara nodded agreement, her eyes wide.

Harry sat down, putting his legs into the pipe. "Okay," he said, looking up at them. "I'll call you when I get to the bottom, Aunt Clara."

"Be careful, Harry," Clara said worriedly. "If you see a basilisk try not to look at it."

Harry smiled at her comment. "I'll try not to," he said. "See you in a bit." He pushed off and slid down the pipe. It dropped straight down for a ways, then began curving slowly back and forth, so that he felt as if he was in a long, dark slimy water slide. Harry allowed himself a whimsical "Wee-ee-ee!" — it seemed oddly appropriate, in way, though he had to remind himself that there could be a large, nasty monster at the other end. Other pipes were draining water into the one he was in, but none of them was as large as his. As he continued down the pipe Harry realized he was going far below the deepest levels of the castle, deeper even than the dungeons. Eventually the pipe leveled out to nearly horizontal, and he shot out of the end with a wet thud on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in.

There was no light, but a snap of his fingers fixed that in a jiffy, and Harry looked around. The tunnel led off into the darkness, so dark that even with warlock vision Harry could see very little ahead of him. He glanced back at the end of the pipe, wondering if perhaps he should go on alone and not involve Aunt Clara and Dumbledore in this. But at that moment Clara's voice echoed in his head, " _Harry? Are you there_?"

" _Yes, Aunt Clara_ ," Harry replied.

" _We're coming down_ ," Clara said, and a moment later there was a thud and splash as Dumbledore, then Clara slid out of the end of the tube.

"Oh dear," Dumbledore muttered to himself as Harry ran back to help him and Clara to their feet. "That did not go quite as planned."

"Sorry," Clara said, adjusting her hat as Harry helped her up. "I goofed again."

"This is quite fascinating," Dumbledore said, looking around the tunnel. "I was not aware the Hogwarts drainage system went this deep."

"Not really much drainage going on, though," Harry said dryly. "For all of the water flowing down that pipe, very little made it down to this level." He pointed to the floor, which was damp but not very wet.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. "We are far beneath the Black Lake — perhaps even under it — so I would venture to guess that the water was drained into the lake instead of flowing down here."

"This is not what I remember the Chamber of Secrets looking like," Clara spoke up. "Where do you suppose it is?"

"Further along this tunnel, my dear Clara," Dumbledore answered. "At least, that is my suspicion — it is too dark to see much further ahead."

"Maybe we ought to get going," Harry suggested, anxious to get this over with. It had been a long day and he was tired.

But Dumbledore reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "Harry," he said with a small shake of his head. "I do not think you should continue on from here. Aunt Clara, will you remain here with Harry while I go on ahead. I will deal with Lockhart on my own."

Before Clara could answer Harry pushed the Headmaster's hand off his shoulder. "We're all going on, Professor. You can use our help with that basilisk, and I want to know what's up with Lockhart."

But even as Harry turned to start down the tunnel, he heard a noise that made him pause and listen. It was very faint, as if it were far away, and it sounded like—

Like Ron screaming.

"Oh, no," he muttered, turning back to face the drain pipe. Ron's screams were getting louder, and a few moments later he shot out of the end of the tube. A second later Hermione slid out behind him.

Harry went over and helped them to their feet. As soon as Ron and Hermione were both standing he rounded on her. "You pushed me!" he shouted.

"I was getting tired of waiting for you to work up the courage to go on your own!" Hermione retorted, glaring at him. "Myrtle _told_ you Harry already went down the tube, what were you scared of?!"

"I wasn't scared!" Ron yelled. "I — was — being — _careful_!"

"Rubbish, you screamed like a little girl when I pushed you," Hermione sneered.

"Okay, _enough_ ," Harry said, and they both looked at him. "I don't think either of you should be here," he told them. "We're after something really dangerous —"

"A basilisk," Hermione said immediately. "I figured that out. There aren't _that_ many things that can petrify other creatures."

"It's worse than that," Harry warned them. "It's what killed Myrtle all those years ago, when Tom Riddle found the Chamber of Secrets and set it loose."

"Yes, it's quite dangerous," Clara agreed. "If a basilisk looks directly at you, its gaze can kill you." Ron paled. "And if you see its gaze in a mirror or reflected in water, it will petrify you. It's not a very nice creature at all. I'm surprised Salazar left it in the Chamber."

"Then how are _we_ going to stop it?" Hermione asked. "Won't it do the same to us?"

"Lockhart's the real problem," Harry said. "Or rather, the one who's controlling him now, Tom Riddle. I think Tom Riddle was inside that diary I found, and somehow it took over Lockhart."

"So who's Tom Riddle?" Ron asked.

"The original owner of the book," Harry said. "T.M. Riddle, the name written in the book. Tom Riddle is who grew up to become Lord Voldemort, according to Professor Dumbledore."

"Oh!" both Hermione and Ron exclaimed. "That explains a lot!" Hermione went on.

"I _knew_ that book was cursed!" Ron muttered.

"I don't want you two getting mixed up in this," Harry warned them. "Professor Dumbledore, Aunt Clara and I can take care of things."

"We're already here, Harry," Hermione pointed out. "We're already mixed up in this. I don't see why we can't come along as well — we already know about you and Aunt Clara and your witchcraft." Dumbledore took note of what Hermione said. A very interesting fact to know for certain!

"And we do have a way to protect them from the basilisk, Harry," Clara reminded him, taking out the spectacles the Apothecary had given her. "These will protect them from the basilisk's gaze."

"Indeed?" Dumbledore reached out and took the glasses from her. "How do these work?"

"They keep the basilisk's gaze from reaching your eyes," Harry said reluctantly. "It can't affect you while you're wearing them, apparently."

"That's brilliant!" Hermione said eagerly. "How many of those do you have?"

"Only four pairs," Harry said, producing the other three. "Not enough for all of us. One of you will have to stay back."

Hermione made a sound of disappointment, while Ron looked relieved. "I'll stay, then," he said quickly. "Better safe than sorry, you know." Hermione arched an eyebrow at him.

"Oh!" Clara suddenly opened her carpetbag. "I just remembered — I already have a pair of these glasses!" She took a pair out of her bag and put them on. "I remember now — I picked up a pair of these from the Apothecary when Endora and I were in Wales once, on a basilisk hunt. So we can all go now!" she beamed happily at them.

Harry wordlessly handed a pair of the spectacles to Ron, who sighed and took them, putting them on. "We should get going," Harry said, pointing down the dark tunnel. "We've got to find Lockhart and that basilisk."

The five of them set out down the tunnel, which curved gently to the left. As it became darker Dumbledore took out his wand, raising it over his head, and it lit with a brilliant white light that allowed them to see a dozen or so feet ahead of them.

They walked on for a ways, until a sudden crunching sound made them stop and look down. Ron had stepped on a rat's skull. He made a face and they continued walking forward, more slowly to avoid the many rat and other small animal skeletons that littered the tunnel floor. Ron suddenly grabbed Harry's shoulder.

"Look!" he said, pointing ahead. "I see something up there!"

They stopped. Harry's warlock vision was able to make out the outline of something large and curved lying right across the tunnel.

"Is — is that the…" Ron gulped, unable to finish his question. But Harry had gotten close enough now to understand what they were seeing.

"It's just a skin," he said to them. "The basilisk probably shed it not long ago." He was close enough now to estimate the skin's length — it looked to be around 20 feet or so. "I wonder how big it is now?" he asked himself.

"That's big enough," Ron muttered, looking at the skin. "How — how much further?"

"You're not _afraid_ , are you Ron?" Hermione asked, a bit smugly.

"Put a sock in it, would ya?" Ron snapped. "I promised my mum I wouldn't get in trouble my first year at school, and I think dying would get me in a _lot_ of trouble!"

"Quiet," Harry shushed them. "We don't need anyone hearing us coming."

Continuing past the huge skin, they continued walking in relative silence, the only sound being their footfalls on the stones of the tunnel floor. The tunnel turned one way then another, going on and on until Harry began to wonder how far they had come.

Then they went around a last bend in the tunnel, and at last they came upon a solid wall ahead of hem, on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds.

"Whoa," Ron whispered. "Would you look at those eyes."

"I believe we have found the Chamber," Dumbledore said quietly. He turned to look at the others; Harry kept himself from grinning at the sight of the Headmaster wearing what amounted to a pair of sunglasses. "Everyone stay behind me."

He walked up to the wall, moving his hands slowly across it, as if looking for some way to cause it to open. After over a minute of searching, he stepped back with a sigh. "I found no magical signature that would cause the wall to open. Clara, would you try to open the wall?"

"Um, well, I can try," Clara said. She moved forward slowly, staring at the snakes. "Now, wall," she said in all seriousness. "We would consider it a great favor if you would open for us."

Nothing happened.

"It seems a bit stubborn," Clara said parenthetically to Dumbledore, as Ron and Hermione looked at each other with raised eyebrows. "Now wall, we do have business inside, so could you please move aside?" This request was met with the same result as before.

"Professor," Harry spoke up. "You said earlier that Tom was a Parselmouth. You asked me if I could speak to the snake I saw at the zoo last summer. Does that mean Parselmouth is a language snakes can understand?"

"In a way," Dumbledore replied. "It is a magical ability that allows those possessing to communicate with most snakes and snake-like creatures. It also seems to allow the speaker some measure of control over the snake being spoken to."

"So if I could speak it, could I control the basilisk?" Harry asked.

"That is possible," Dumbledore agreed. "Although in the presence of more than one Parselmouth the snake may only obey one but not the other, depending on who has influenced it the most."

"Well, it's worth a try," Harry shrugged, and began to recite:

 _Things that creep and crawl on the ground,  
_ _Listen now to my voice's sound!  
_ _Eldritch abilities, whatever it takes,  
_ _Grant me the power to speak to snakes!_

Harry felt a tingling pass through him, especially in his mouth and throat. "I think it worked," he said to the others. "Let me give it a try."

He stepped closer to the wall, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, then saying, "Open up." But when he opened his eyes the wall had remained closed. He looked back at Ron and Hermione.

"I heard English," Ron said, shrugging. "Maybe your spell didn't work."

"I _felt_ it," Harry insisted, touching his neck. "I'm not doing something right."

"You may need an aide or trigger of some kind to help you," Dumbledore suggested.

"Salazar always looked at the snake he was talking to," Clara spoke up. "Maybe it would help you if you looked at the snakes on the wall, Harry."

"Okay," Harry nodded. He stared at the entwined snakes, their emerald eyes looking eerily alive. " _Open up_ ," he said, this time feeling his throat making a hissing sound. The serpents parted as the wall slowly opened, sliding out of sight into the walls surrounding them, and they stepped forward into the room beyond.

Inside the wall was a long, dimly-lit chamber containing towering stone pillars with more carved serpents entwined about them, rising upward to disappear into darkness above them. The ceiling was so high Harry could barely make it out; he doubted anyone else could see it, not even Aunt Clara. He looked around carefully, wondering where Lockhart/Riddle and the basilisk were hiding.

Ron had unconsciously gripped Hermione's arm. He was looking around as well, though his expression held barely-concealed terror. "Is — is this the Chamber?" he whispered.

"Oh yes," Clara said in a normal voice, and Ron and Hermione both started in surprise. "It looks a bit dustier than the last time I saw it, though — Salazar must've forgotten to put an Anti-Dust Charm on it."

"I very much doubt that mattered to him, Clara," Dumbledore said in a quiet, low voice. "This place was meant to hold the Monster of Slytherin. He never meant for it to be a place of celebration — except perhaps his celebration of killing all the Muggleborn students in the school."

"Yes," Clara nodded sadly. "He was very much against them attending the school, I'm sorry to say. The other Founders overrode him; I see now this was his way of taking revenge on them. How disappointing."

"So where is Professor Lockhart?" Hermione whispered. "I mean, Tom Riddle, or whoever has taken over Professor Lockhart?"

"Don't know," Harry said, walking forward slowly. "Just keep your glasses on and watch for any movement." They moved between the columns, their footsteps echoing loudly in the chill silence of the chamber. As they neared the far end Harry was able to make out a huge statue standing against the far wall, a statue that reached as high as the Chamber itself. He recognized the face as Salazar Slytherin himself; its stone eyes seemed to glare down at him and the others. As they passed the last stone column before the statue, a familiar voice spoke off to one side.

"So," Gilderoy Lockhart chuckled, his tone tinged with contempt. "You managed to discover where the Chamber is hidden. Congratulations, though all you have done is sealed your doom."

"Tom," Dumbledore spoke warningly. "You are dealing with magic beyond your understanding. Stop this at once or you will be stopped."

"Very dramatic, old man," Lockhart sneered, folding his arms across his chest in defiance. "But you seem to forget that _I_ command the Monster of Slytherin. None of you stand a chance against it — not even _you_ , Potter, with you enhanced wizard abilities."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that if I were you," Harry sneered back. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Lockhart laughed. "Oh, your little mudblood girlfriend gave me a good idea, boy. You can Apparate even inside Hogwarts, unlike other students, and can cast spells without a wand. But _I_ was able to cast spells windlessly when I was younger than you! And since you're all wearing glasses even in the gloom of this Chamber, I must assume they serve a special purpose. Thus —" Lockhart's wand was suddenly in his hand and he gestured toward them. The glasses disappeared off their faces.

"Damn," Harry muttered. "Should have thought to make them Vanish-proof."

"Now that you are no longer protected from my pet's gaze," Lockhart gloated. "Let's bring him out so he can play with you." The wizard turned and looked up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in the dimness of the ceiling. Hissing issued from his mouth, but Harry understood what he was saying: " _Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four_!"

Harry turned to the others, "Get back!" he said sharply, and they began moving toward the far wall of the chamber. A grinding noise came from above them, and Harry looked back to see the stone mouth of Salazar Slytherin open wide, making a huge black hole. Inside that hole, Harry could hear something stirring — coming up from the depths of the gigantic statue itself. He turned away quickly, urging the others forward.

But even as the hurried toward the exit, Harry saw with horror that the walls were closing again! They reached the back of the Chamber as the walls rumbled shut with a loud _crack_ of stone against stone. Behind him, Harry heard a loud thump as something hit the floor at the opposite end of the room. Lockhart had called up the basilisk!

"Tell it to open again!" Ron said frantically to him, pointing at the wall.

"We should leave, Harry," Clara urged. "There's no arguing with a basilisk in a bad mood."

"I concur," Dumbledore said. "Though I can call Fawkes — a phoenix has certain defenses against a basilisk."

"Nice to know," Harry said. "But we don't need him. There's an even easier solution. All of you just keep facing the back wall — don't look back!" He could hear the scraping of scales on stone — the basilisk was moving toward them.

" _Kill them all_!" Lockhart said in Parseltongue, urging the basilisk forward.

"Harry!" Ron said, his voice nearly a scream "Whatever you're going to do, _do it already_!"

"As you wish," Harry replied. Without looking around he snapped his fingers behind him. Between them and the basilisk a dozen roosters suddenly appeared. The beginning notes of the "William Tell Overture" began playing in the background, and off to one side the image of a rising sun began to appear. "Okay boys," Harry said to them. "Do your morning thing!"

At the sight of the roosters the basilisk had quickly halted, realizing it was in danger, it began to turn and slither away, but the sound of a dozen roosters crowing caused it to shudder and fall to the chamber floor, dead.

Lockhart, who had been grinning broadly only moments before, gasped in disbelief as his basilisk dropped dead in front of him. "How — how could you _do that_?!" he screamed at Harry.

Harry turned around to face him across the length of the Chamber. The basilisk, its eyes closed in death, was no longer a danger. "It's not that hard for even a wizard to transfigure a rooster, if there was anything in here to transfigure one from. But I'm not just a wizard, Lockhart — I'm a warlock."

"Soon you won't even be that!" Lockhart shouted, raising his wand toward Harry. " _Avada Ked_ —" The rest of the Killing Curse died in his throat as Harry snapped his fingers again and Lockhart froze in place, a look of utter surprise on his face.

The five walked up to stare at Lockhart's frozen body. "Well, that was a bit — anticlimactic," Ron quipped as he grinned at the expression on Lockhart's face.

"Sure it was," Hermione retorted. "Even though you looked like you were going to wet yourself."

"I knew Harry had things under control," Ron said, smug now that the danger had passed.

Hermione leaned up to peer into Lockhart's eyes. "How are we going to get that Tom Riddle personality out of him?" she asked fretfully.

Harry shrugged. "No idea. Actually, I'm not inclined to try."

"I agree," Dumbledore added. "But for now we must find a way to keep that personality inside him — I do not want it to escape."

Harry shrugged "For now, I guess Aunt Clara can shrink him down and encase him in a tube that will keep him from escaping."

"I can do that," Clara agreed. Moments later Lockhart was shrunken, sealed inside the tube and the five vanished from the Chamber of Secrets.

 **=ooo=**

 _10:32 p.m.  
_ _Near the Gryffindor common room—_

After returning to Professor Dumbledore's office with him, Aunt Clara and the frozen figure of Gilderoy Lockhart, and enduring a lecture from Dumbledore to Ron and Hermione about student safety and responsibility (a hilarious irony to Harry given some of the decisions the Headmaster had made in just the past few months), they were let go with a warning to tell no one what they'd seen and heard in the past few hours and told to return to the Gryffindor common room and act as if everything were normal.

"I don't know what he thinks _normal_ is," Ron was grumbling as they made their way down the seventh-floor corridor on their way to their common room.

"There's nothing about this year that's been normal yet!"

"And _why_ did it have to be Professor Lockhart?" Hermione sulked.

"Oh, come _on_ ," Harry said, disbelievingly. "You're not still crushing on that bloke, are you?"

Hermione glared at him. "What I _meant_ was, he was doing a pretty good job of teaching us Defense for the past few weeks. _That's_ what I'm going to miss about him."

"That's what you're going to miss about Tom Riddle," Harry reminded her. "He was the reason Lockhart turned around so suddenly on our lessons. And I just found out today that he was spiking everyone's food, making us more susceptible to his suggestions. I think it affected even me."

"I thought you were immune to our magic," Ron asked.

"I'm resistant to it, not immune," Harry said. "It's not the same thing. Magic is magic, no matter who is using it, but witches and warlocks can resist wand magic pretty easily, and the more powerful the witch or warlock, the more they can resist the witchcraft of others. I probably could have resisted the effects of the potion Riddle put in our food if I'd known about it sooner."

They reached the Fat Lady's portrait, and Hermione gave the password so they could enter. Once inside, Hermione turned toward the staircase to the girls' dormitories. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said tiredly to them.

"G'night," Harry and Ron said, then trudged up the staircase to their dorm, ready to put an end to the day. At least, Harry thought as he prepared for bed, he didn't have to report to the Room of Requirement for his midnight lessons. Aunt Clara was tired from all of the excitement of the day and just wanted to rest.

"What d'you think is gonna happen tomorrow?" Ron asked quietly as he and Harry climbed into their beds. "What with Lockhart go —"

"Don't worry about it," Harry spoke over him, in case Dean, Seamus or Neville were awake and listening. No use giving away that they knew more than the other boys did. "For now we can just let come what may."

 **=ooo=**

 _The Headmaster's office—_

Severus Snape stepped from the Headmaster's fireplace as the green flames swirled around him. Dumbledore and McGonagall were both present already, their expressions unsmiling and tense. "What's Potter done now?" Snape asked slowly, expecting the worst.

In silent response Dumbledore held up a glass vial with a shrunken figure inside it. As Snape stepped nearer he saw that it was the form of Lockhart, an expression of surprise and outrage on his face. "You know what this is, don't you?" McGonagall said tensely, pointing at the vial.

"Another Defense professor on ice, it appears," Snape retorted dryly.

"It's a _disaster_ ," McGonagall moaned. "An unmitigated disaster!"

"My dear Minerva," Dumbledore said in a placating tone. "There really was no choice. Poor Gilderoy had been taken over by a curse on a diary, a curse that made him believe he was Lord Voldemort." Snape looked sharply at Dumbledore, but said nothing. Apparently McGonagall still hadn't learned about Horcruxes yet. "He was in the process of sapping our wills in order to lower our ability to resist when he took over the school. Which, from all indications, would have been very soon. We are fortunate Harry and his aunt stopped him."

"How could something like this even _happen_?" McGonagall asked, her voice going shrill. "How could someone curse a diary in that way?!"

Dumbledore and Snape's eyes momentarily locked. "I have some ideas on that," the Headmaster said, vaguely. "Let me think on them a bit more before we discuss it further."

"Fine," McGonagall looked irritated, but there were more pressing problems than Dumbledore farting around with his magical theories. "What do we do about a Defense professor? You've already lost two, and it's not even Halloween yet! At this rate there won't be anyone left to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts by the end of the school year!"

"I do have someone in mind," Dumbledore said, a false brightness in his voice. He'd hope to save this candidate for another year or so, but their need was pressing. "Something who has already been in the school this year and offered his services to me if I should need them."

"Ah," McGonagall said, a smile finally coming to her lips. "Remus Lupin."

Snape could not avoid a small snort of derision. McGonagall stared at him. "You disagree, Professor Snape?"

"Lupin is passably talented," Snape admitted. "But I'm sure both of you are aware of his —" a silky smile tugged at Snape's lips "—shall we say, _condition_?"

"Of course we know of it," McGonagall snapped. "And I recall how you learned of it as well, to your shame!"

"And what will happen if that condition becomes public?" Snape went on, implacably, ignoring her cutting remark. "You will get backlash from parents, from the governors of the school, perhaps from the Ministry itself. They are none too keen these days on the idea of having one of his ilk working close to normal witches and wizards."

"I will ensure that Remus will be safe to teach students, Severus," Dumbledore stated. "You will make Wolfsbane Potion for him during his time here."

"Will I?" Snape almost looked amused at that idea. "Do you trust me to make it correctly, Headmaster?"

"I trust that a Potions Master of your caliber would not knowingly or willingly misbrew a potion, Severus," Dumbledore replied calmly. "The potion is difficult but certainly well within your ability." Snape gave a grudging nod of acknowledgement at that compliment. It was true — he would not misbrew the potion, willingly or otherwise; to do so would be a black mark against him, a black mark he would never allow.

"That is settled, then," Dumbledore nodded. "I shall contact Remus and have him report to Hogwarts as soon as possible. If he arrives promptly he may only miss a class or two." Taking the vial containing Lockhart, Dumbledore placed it in the cabinet next to the vial of Quirrell, then carefully shut and locked the cabinet.

"One other thing," Dumbledore said as he sat down at his desk, as McGonagall and Snape moved toward the fireplace. "After Quirinus was locked away, the only explanation we offered the Ministry was that he suffered a breakdown and was taken to a location on the continent to recover. I rather doubt we should offer something similar for Gilderoy's disappearance."

"What can we say, then?" McGonagall asked. "What are you suggesting? That we lie to the Ministry once _again_?"

"I think," Dumbledore said contemplatively. "I have another way to deal with that. As we all suspect, Gilderoy Lockhart was very likely a fraud who passed off the stories of other witches and wizards as his own, after removing their memories of those events.

"I propose to leak that information anonymously to the _Daily Prophet_ , to let them take that information, which will be confirmed when a few of Gilderoy's former victims step forward to recount their tales after their memories partially return. We will inform the Ministry that Professor Lockhart left the school abruptly and hasn't been heard from since."

Snape was nodding slowly. "That seems plausible."

"I don't care much for destroying a man's life," McGonagall huffed. "But I admit I cannot think of anyone who deserves it more than Lockhart. I agree as well."

"Splendid!" Dumbledore clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "I shall put that plan into motion after I finish the letter to Remus." He pulled parchment and inkwell toward him, and began writing as McGonagall and Snape each took a pinch of Floo powder and threw it into the fireplace, then stepped into the green flames and returned to their quarters.


	17. Bugged by the Press

.

 **Chapter Seventeen**

 **Bugged By The Press**

 _Updated_ 4/15/2016

 **=ooo=**

 _25 October 1991  
_ _3:12 p.m.  
_ _The path to Hagrid's cabin—_

Harry and Ron walked past the greenhouses on the path that would take them to the cabin on the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds, nearly into the Forbidden Forest itself. Their last class for the week, Double History with Professor Binns, was thankfully over with, and Harry had reminded Ron that they were going to visit the groundkeeper at his request.

"You still don't know why he wants to see you, do you?" Ron asked as they trudged along.

Harry shook his head. "Like I said, he seems to know me, somehow. He says I look like my father, so I guess he knew him as well. At least now I'll get the chance to see what he knows about him and my mum."

The ground sloped gently downward as they continued eastward; in the distance they could see the cabin, which looked like a small wooden house in the distance, with a garden off to one side. As they neared it, however, they saw how big it really was — big enough for a man Hagrid's size, which was rather big indeed.

Harry reached up and knocked on the door. They heard a frantic scramble inside and several loud barks. "Settle down, Fang," they heard Hagrid say, then the door cracked open a bit and one of Hagrid's eyes peered through it at them. "Hang on," he said. "Come on, Fang, get back there!"

The door swung open, and Hagrid stood there, one hand on the collar of an enormous boarhound who kept leaping forward, struggling to get at them. Ron hesitated as they walked inside, clearly nervous around the large hound, but Harry said, "Hi, Fang," to the dog and it settled down immediately, sitting and panting expectantly.

"He likes yer," Hagrid beamed, letting go of Fang, and it bounded over to Ron and began licking his ears, to Ron's anxious amusement. "Make yerselves at home," Hagrid said, pointing to a table in the middle of the room with three chairs around it. "I'll get yer some tea."

The cabin itself had only one room, Harry saw. One corner of it was a kitchen; there was a large iron stove with a copper kettle heating up on it, and pots and pans hung from the ceiling. There was a cupboard for plates and glasses and a small countertop with drawers, presumably for silverware and other utensils. The ceiling had hams and pheasants hanging from it, and the only other furniture in the room was a large wardrobe and an enormous bed in the opposite corner. Harry and Ron slid onto chairs at the table. The edge of the table came up to their chests, it was so large, but when Hagrid took a chair he barely had room to get his legs under the table. "An' who might this be?" Hagrid nodded at Ron, a smile crinkling the skin around his eyes. "Looks like another Weasley t'me, aincha?"

"This is Ron Weasley," Harry nodded, and Ron gave a smile and a little wave.

"Thought so," Hagrid nodded. "You know, I've spent half my life chasing your brothers away from the Forbidden Forest over the years."

"I don't doubt it," Ron replied. "A name like 'Forbidden Forest' is like an open invitation to my brothers! Except for Percy, that is."

Hagrid reached over to the counter and grabbed a plate that was sitting there. The plate held a number of what looked like white rocks with bits of black gravel embedded in them. "Have some rock cakes," Hagrid said, then stood and went over to get the kettle off the stove, which had begun boiling. He took down three cups from the cupboard, and poured hot water into them, then steeped tea in each of them. He set two of the cups in front of Harry and Ron; they were the size of large bowls but they all but disappeared when they were in Hagrid's hands. Hagrid sat back down, taking a white lump off the plate he'd provided and gesturing toward it. "Eat up, boys," he offered. "Made 'em myself." So saying, he bit into the one in his hand, adding, "Mmmm."

Harry and Ron reached out and took one apiece. They even _felt_ like rocks, Harry thought — hard to the touch. Ron put his to his lips and tried to bite into it, but his teeth barely made a mark. He glanced over at Harry, his expression saying _do something_! Harry nodded minutely and softly snapped his fingers. His and Ron's cakes immediately acquired the consistency and flavor of scones. He and Ron bit into theirs and made noises of approval. Hagrid beamed happily.

Harry felt something heavy and wet on his lap, and looked down to see that Fang had laid his head there, his nose poking Harry in the thigh. Harry put a hand absently on Fang's head and petted him gently, and Fang whined appreciatively at his attention.

"So, boys," Hagrid asked, as they each picked up their tea cups in two hands and sipped at the hot liquid. "How's school bin fer yeh so far this year? Are yeh learning much?"

"It's been okay," Ron said, then launched into an impromptu rant of everything that was wrong with the school and teachers. Some classes were boring; some were too hard. Some of the teachers were nice, like Professor Sprout, but some of them were horrible, like Snape. The two Defense professors they'd had, Quirrell and Lockhart, had not done a good job, but the last one, the one who'd shown up earlier that week after Lockhart disappeared, Remus Lupin, was doing well. Well, Ron allowed, he did give loads of homework, but his classes were interesting and most of the students thought he was doing good, so everyone was hoping that he'd be around for a while.

"Lupin's a good man," Hagrid commented. "He'll do right by yer wit' yer lessons."

Oh, there was a positive note, Ron went on — Mrs. Norris was still Petrified, and it would take another few weeks before Professor Snape could brew the draught that would cure her. Filch had been seen dragging himself aimlessly through the hallways, muttering to himself and glaring at Harry whenever he caught sight of him. Hearing this seemed to give Hagrid a good deal of pleasure. "As fer that cat," he told them. "I'd like ter introduce her to Fang sometime. Did yeh know, ev'ry time I get up ter the school, she follows me around ev'rywhere? I can't get rid a' her — Filch puts her up to it! I'll have to go up an' pay 'im a visit sometime soon," he grinned.

The only really good thing that had happened so far that year was that Ron and Harry were both on the Quidditch team — Harry was the youngest player in over a century! — and he'd had gotten a Nimbus 2000 because he was the team Seeker and needed it to keep up with the other Seekers, who all had high-quality brooms as well. Oliver Wood, their team captain, had them practicing at least three times a week — their first Quidditch match was two weeks from now, when they would play the Slytherins, and Wood was making everyone on the team crazy because he was so obsessed about beating them. In fact, they had another practice today at four p.m., Ron suddenly remembered, so they'd have to leave a little before then.

"Yeah, that'll be a good game," Hagrid agreed, chuckling. "Yer dad was on the Quidditch team, Harry — did you know that?"

"He told me," Harry said, without thinking, then suppressed a wince as he realized what he'd said.

"Eh?" Hagrid looked confused. "What'cher mean, 'he tol' you'?"

"I mean," Harry went on quickly. "Er, Wood told me about him."

Hagrid grunted, that explanation seemed to satisfy him. "An' are yeh looking forward to Harry Potter Day next week, then?"

"What?" It was Harry's turn to be confused. "Harry Potter Day?" He looked at Ron, who was carefully looking away at that moment. "What's _that_?"

"What?" Hagrid looked outraged. "Yeh mean nobody's told you about _Harry Potter Day_?! Why, it's only one o' the most important days of the year! It's almost as important as Halloween, which comes on the same day."

"No, nobody's told me about it," Harry said, his eyes on Ron, who was still avoiding Harry's looks. "Ron, what do you know about Harry Potter Day?"

"Er," Ron said evasively. "Well, it's not that big a deal —"

"Not that _big a deal_?" Hagrid boomed, causing Fang to yelp and run into the corner, cowering. "Why, it's a _great big_ deal! That's the day Harry got rid of ol' You-Know-Who and saved the wizarding world!"

Harry sighed. "Mister Hagrid —"

"Just call me Hagrid, Harry," the groundskeeper reminded him. "Ev'rybody does."

"Hagrid, then — I was only a year old, I don't even remember what happened that day," Harry replied. "I don't know why Voldemort disappeared —"

"Don't say his name!" Hagrid said frantically. "It's bad luck!"

"It's just a name!" Harry retorted. "What do you know about it, anyway? Where were _you_ that day?"

"Closer'n you think," Hagrid muttered, taking another rock cake and swallowing it in one bite. "I was right there wit' yer, Harry — I was the one that found yeh."

Harry's demeanor changed in an instant. "Really?" he said. "Nobody's ever told me that."

Hagrid shook his head sadly. "Not a good thing ter remember. But… do you want to hear what happened?"

"Yes, please!" Harry and Ron both leaned forward, eager to find out what had gone on that day.

"When I got there," Hagrid began. "Yer mum and dad's house was in shambles. It looked like the right top half of the house was blown away.

"I went inside, to see who was still alive. I found…your dad next…to the stairs." Hagrid's voice was choking up as he spoke; he had turned away from Harry, unable to look at him as he spoke. "He was… he was…" Hagrid shook his head. Harry put a comforting hand on his massive arm.

"I went up the stairs," Hagrid continued, brokenly. "It was too much t' hope for that I'd find Lily — tha's your mum, you know — alive, but I still had ter look." Hagrid had taken a massive handkerchief out of a pocket, and was dabbing at his eyes as he spoke. "I went to where yer crib was, an' there she was…" Hagrid covered his face with the handkerchief. "Sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry! I couldn't help them!"

"It's okay, Hagrid," Harry whispered. He felt ready to break into tears himself, though he'd met his parents and made his peace with their passing. Ron was looking stricken as well, his eyes wide as he covered his mouth with a hand, to keep himself from moaning in sympathy. "What — what did you do next?"

Hagrid sniffled loudly, then blew his nose into the handkerchief. "You were lyin' there asleep," he said. "For a minute I thought yer mum had beaten You-Know-Who somehow, cause you were lyin' there so peaceful." Hagrid pointed to Harry's forehead. "Then I saw that scar, an' I knew somethin' had happened to you. I picked you up, real careful-like, in case you were hurt, an' you opened yer eyes and looked at me. You said my name — 'Hagged' was what yeh called me," A smile briefly flitted across Hagrid's face, almost hidden by his black beard. "Then I saw — there was a cloak by yer crib, torn to pieces. I knew it wasn't yer dad or mum's. It had to be — _his_."

"His," Harry repeated. "You mean, Vol— er, You-Know-Who's?"

Hagrid nodded in a jerky motion. "Yeah," he breathed raggedly. "I found yer mum's wand, next to her body, an' yer dad's was in their bedroom, on the dresser — he din't even have it with 'im when he fought You-Know-Who. But I couldn't find You-Know-Who's wand anywhere. Even to this day nobody knows what happened ter it.

"So I bundled you up and took yer to where Dumbledore said he'd be waitin' — at yer aunt an' uncle's house outside London, in Little Whinging." Hagrid ran his sleeve across his face. "An' that's the last I saw of yer until yeh got off the Hogwarts Express this past September the first."

Harry was thinking about what Hagrid had just said. "My parents lived in Godric's Hollow, didn't they?" Hagrid nodded. "How'd you get from there to Little Whinging? Can you Apparate?"

Hagrid laughed hollowly. "Naw, course not! I ain't acherly allowed to do magic, that is. But yer uncle Sirius lent me his motorcycle that evening, an' I took it out to yer mum and dad's. That's what got us from there to Little Whinging."

"My uncle Sirius?" Harry asked. "Nobody's mentioned him before. Who is he?"

But both Hagrid and Ron's expressions had gone spare, as if realizing that name shouldn't have been spoken in front of Harry. "Er, well, Sirius was a friend of your dad's," Hagrid explained. "His best friend, acherly. He ain't really your uncle, that is."

"Oh," Harry said, remembering something. "Ron told me there was a bloke named Sirius Black who was put in Azkaban years ago. But that's not the same guy, is it?" Hagrid didn't answer, like he'd suddenly gone deaf.

Harry looked at Ron. "Well? It's not the same guy, is it?"

"Er—" Ron said, swallowing hard. "I —"

"Oi," Hagrid said suddenly, looking at the door of his cabin. "Someone's at the front gate."

Harry and Ron hadn't heard anything. "How d'you know that?" Ron asked.

"I'm the Keeper o' the Keys as well as the groundskeeper," Hagrid said, standing and suddenly acting important. "It's my job to know when people come callin'. Come on," he said, going to the door. He grabbed a huge mokeskin coat off a hook near the door, pulling it on as he walked down the steps and began striding across the grounds. Harry and Ron had to run to keep up with him.

In what seemed like less than a minute they had made their way along the north side of the castle, taking the path leading from the front doors of the castle to the Quidditch pitch, then turning off and going to the school's front entrance: large, formidable–looking gates of wrought iron, locked and chained with an enormous black padlock.

On the other side of the gate stood three people, all looking at Hagrid quite impatiently as he strode up to meet them. The first was a portly man in a pinstriped cloak, twirling a bright green bowler hat absently in his hands. Next to him stood a witch, her blonde hair done up in elaborate curls, wearing jeweled glasses and bright red lipstick and nail polish, wearing a bright green robe that immediately reminded Harry of Slytherin. The third person was a paunchy wizard in black robes, holding a large black camera at the ready in front of him.

"Uh-oh," Harry heard Ron mutter under his breath as he saw them, but before Harry could ask why he said it, the portly man spoke up irritably.

"Hagrid, why the deuce are the gates locked for at this time of day? Hurry up and open them!" he demanded.

"Hello, Minister," Hagrid replied evenly, stopping before the gates with his hands on his hips as he surveyed the trio. "To what do we owe the honor of this visit?"

"We're here to see Dumbledore, dash it all!" the man replied, his tone imperious. "Now open up!"

"Course, Minister," Hagrid said brightly, then proceeded to unlock the gate in a very careful, measured way, taking his time as the three people outside watched him impatiently. The padlock was unlocked, the chains removed, and the gates finally swung open. "There yeh are — welcome to Hogwarts!"

"About time!" the Minister snapped, stomping through the gate with the witch and wizard with the camera followed right behind him. Before he took two steps he saw Harry and Ron and stopped, staring at them. "Er, who are these two, Hagrid?"

"Oh." Hagrid acted as if he'd forgotten they were there. "Well, these young gentlemen are Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, Minister Fudge."

"Harry Potter?" the Minister's eyes widened as he turned them on Harry. "Are you really?"

Harry sighed at that question, but he answered, "Yes, sir," in as polite a tone as he could muster. The blonde-haired witch was staring craftily at him, as if he were a particularly shiny object that had caught her attention.

"Harry Potter," she said, her eyes running up and down his face and robes. "That's right, you were due to start school this year, as I recall. I may want to do a piece on you as well."

"Rita," Minister Fudge turned to her. "I don't care who or what you write about, as long as we get to the bottom of this Lockhart affair." He looked back at Harry and Ron. "Boys, you'll excuse us, but we've got business to attend to with the Headmaster. Hagrid, if you would —" He gestured toward the castle, and Hagrid led them up the path to the doors of the school, leaving Harry and Ron behind.

Harry stood watching them leave. Every so often the woman would glance over her shoulder at him, as if checking whether he would follow or not. When they were far enough away Harry was sure they couldn't hear him, he said, "I guess that guy with the green hat was Minister Fudge, because that's what Hagrid called him. Who was that woman?"

"Rita Skeeter," Ron answered, scowling in her direction. "She writes for the _Daily Prophet_. Whenever the _Prophet_ wants someone dragged through the mud, they sic her onto them."

"Sounds like a lovely person," Harry muttered. He watched for a moment as Hagrid led the three inside the front doors of Hogwarts, then held out his hand to Ron. "Come on," he said.

"Where we going?" Ron asked, taking Harry's hand.

"We going to get Hermione and pay a visit to the Headmaster's office," Harry said. "I want to listen in on that conversation," and the two of them vanished.

They reappeared, invisible, in the Gryffindor common room, next to a table where Hermione was sitting alone reading from her textbook _Hogwarts: A History_. After making sure no one was looking in their direction, Harry and Ron became visible. Hermione looked up at them. "There you are," she said quietly. "How was your visit with Mr. Hagrid?"

The Hermione he and Ron stood before today was quite different than the Hermione of just a week ago. Now, with the will-sapping potion cleansed from her body and the control bewitchment Lockhart/Riddle had placed on her dispelled, she was back to her old self — happy and friendly once again rather than secretive, irritable and brooding. She still didn't take any guff from anybody, but she was a lot nicer about it than when she'd been dosed.

"Fine," Harry said curtly, though the truth was he still had questions about the things he'd heard. For now, however, he wanted to concentrate on the matter at hand. "What do you know about Rita Skeeter?" he asked her.

Hermione looked up at him sharply, then slammed her book shut. " _That_ woman!" she said in an angry mutter. "I absolutely detest her! She's everything that's wrong with journalism! Half the things she writes are lies, and the other half are facts blown all out of proportion depending on what she's trying to accomplish and who she thinks is against her!"

"She's up talking to Dumbledore right now," Ron said, jerking a thumb in the general direction of the Headmaster's Tower. "Along with Minister Fudge."

"Fudge is here? With Rita Skeeter?" Hermione looked surprised at that. "I'd never expect to see those two together! Skeeter has been critical of every aspect of Fudge's Ministry from the day he took office."

"You don't have to tell _me_ ," Ron said darkly. "She's been writing a lot of awful stuff about my dad lately. He's been worried sick for weeks now, mum says. And before that she interviewed all of the Cursebreakers at Gringotts, and when she interviewed Bill she wrote that he was a 'long-haired pillock!'"

"She's so rude!" Hermione muttered. "I'd like to —" but she didn't finish her sentence, instead looking up at Harry again. "So why are you here telling me all this?"

"Do you want to go with Ron and me up to the Headmaster's office and listen in on their conversation?" Harry asked, grinning.

Hermione began to grin, too. "Yes, please," she said, in a very sweet voice. She stood, putting her books quickly into her book bag, then slung it over her shoulder. "Let's go," she said briskly.

Harry nodded and snapped his fingers, and the three of them vanished, reappearing a moment later in Dumbledore's office, invisible. It was rather crowded at the moment: along with Dumbledore, Fudge, Rita and her photographer, Professors McGonagall and Snape were there as well as Hagrid, who seemed to be taking up as much room as the rest of them together.

"Not much room," Ron whispered in Harry's ear, though Harry had made it so no one could hear them. Harry nodded agreement, then pointed to a shelf over Dumbledore's head.

"Let's go over there," he said, and they vanished again, this time reappearing on the shelf next to the Sorting Hat.

"Whoa," Ron muttered, seeing that they were now small enough to stand on the shelf. "You can make us _smaller_?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. "Been practicing it for the past few days in lessons with Aunt Clara. I decided it could come in handy sometime. I didn't realize it would be this soon, though." He pointed toward the others. "Let's listen."

"My dear Cornelius," Dumbledore was saying. "I assure you there is nothing to 'get to the bottom of,' as you so quaintly put it. Gilderoy Lockhart was a fraud, as Miss Skeeter discovered, and when he found out he was about to be turned in he fled the school for places unknown. That is all there is to it."

"Yes, yes, so you say, Dumbledore," Fudge replied irritably. "But it seems rather a coincidence that he was able to maintain that deception for all of these years, until coming to your school."

"And there's the matter of where the information came from," Skeeter took up the argument. "It was delivered to me by carrier owl, with no signature and with the handwriting magically concealed. And believe me, I took it to the best men we have at the _Prophet_ — they can break through almost any concealment wards, but the ones on this letter stumped them. Very sophisticated magic," she said craftily, with a knowing look at the Headmaster. "Very few wizards in Britain are capable of such magic. Present company excepted, of course."

"See what I mean?" Hermione whispered, glaring at Skeeter with loathing. "She already believes Professor Dumbledore sent her that letter! The woman has absolutely no scruples — she'll probably accuse him of it in her next article!"

Privately, Harry wouldn't have doubted Dumbledore sent it to her, either, but then he knew things about the Headmaster that Hermione wasn't ready to hear yet.

"I appreciate the compliment, Miss Skeeter," Dumbledore said calmly. "However, I assure you I have no knowledge of who sent you that letter."

"Then you won't mind if we ask around the school about Gilderoy Lockhart, will you?" Skeeter pressed. Beside him, Harry heard Hermione snort with contempt. There was another mumbled "uh-oh" from Ron. "I want to find out what your students think happened to him," the journalist went on. "Maybe someone among them knows more than you do."

"As you wish," Dumbledore nodded obligingly. "If you like, I will have rooms assigned to you and your colleague so you do will not have to travel back and forth between the school and Hogsmeade."

"Er —" Skeeter appeared surprised by the Headmaster's easy capitulation to her demands. "I appreciate the offer, Headmaster," she said, warily. "But my man and I would prefer to arrange our own accommodations."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "If we are finished, then…" He gestured toward the door. "Hagrid, if you would show everyone the way out."

"Hold on, Dumbledore," Fudge spoke up. "I have a few more things to discuss." He and Dumbledore watched as Skeeter and the photographer left with Hagrid, leaving McGonagall and Snape standing silently by. Fudge glared at them a moment. " _Alone_ ," he said, rudely.

McGonagall's lip twisted slightly, but she inclined her head. "Headmaster," she said, turning toward the door. Snape nodded wordlessly and followed her out, leaving the Headmaster and the Minister alone.

Fudge looked around the office at the portraits of the previous Headmasters. "Do you think we can speak without… _them_ listening to us?" he asked.

"All of the previous Headmasters are completely loyal to the current one, Cornelius," Dumbledore answered evenly. "Anything you say to me will be held in strictest confidence."

"Very well, then." Fudge squared his shoulders and faced Dumbledore. "I have been Minister for over a year now, Dumbledore —"

"And a splendid job you are making of it," Dumbledore interjected cheerfully. "I am quite impressed."

" _But_ ," Fudge went on, taking off his bowler and spinning it in his hands. "I sense you are keeping things about this school from me. It hasn't escaped my attention that, even during Milicent's Ministry, you were going through Defense professors at an alarming rate. And now you've lost _two_ in just the first two months of this year! We still have no idea where Quirrell is; now with Lockhart missing, people are beginning to talk."

"I am not at all surprised," Dumbledore answered blandly. "I wish I could tell you where poor Quirinus is, but alas, he elected not to share that information with me, nor with any of my staff members, it seems. Your Aurors have spoken with the two people who came forward to testify about Lockhart stealing the memories of other adventurers, and we find those adventures recounted as his own in his books. That alone strongly suggests that what Rita wrote about the man in her exposé was true."

"Of course, of course," Fudge snapped, twirling his green hat madly in his hands in frustration. "I cannot argue with that evidence! Nevertheless, you worry me sometimes, Headmaster. I think something is up in this school."

"If there is," Dumbledore replied lightly. "I'm sure Miss Skeeter will ferret it out, somehow." He sat down in his chair, smiling up at the portly Minister. "If there is nothing else, Cornelius, perhaps you will join me for dinner?"

Fudge looked tempted, but shook his head. "My wife is expecting me for dinner, and I disappoint her often enough that tonight I should make an exception." He glanced at the fireplace. "Er, if I may, Dumbldore?" he asked, pointing toward it.

"Please, by all means," Dumbledore replied politely. As Harry, Ron and Hermione watched, the Minister went over to the fireplace, taking a pinch of Floo powder and tossing it into the embers. Green flames swirled up, and Fudge stepped into them, saying "Ministry of Magic!" He began spinning madly and disappeared a moment later.

"Ah," Dumbledore sighed, slumping in his chair for a moment. Then he sat up again, turned and looked up at the shelf where the three students were standing, still invisible. "Would you three join me for a moment?" he asked, gesturing toward his office.

Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at one another in surprise, then Harry shrugged and they disappeared from the shelf, reappearing a moment later, normal sized, in front of the Headmaster's desk.

"How did you know we were there?" Harry asked immediately upon reappearing.

"Very little goes on in my office without my knowledge," Dumbledore replied, not really answering the question. "I trust you heard most if not all of the conversation with Cornelius and Miss Skeeter."

"I don't think it's a good idea to set her loose in the school," Hermione spoke up. "She is a vicious, conniving woman who can't be trusted!"

"Such harsh words from one so young," Dumbledore murmured, a hint of sadness in his voice. "I hope Rita has done nothing to hurt you personally, Miss Granger."

"She's hurt a lot of people," Hermione said hotly, and Ron nodded agreement.

"I have seen her articles on the Ministry," Dumbledore commented. "Including the one featuring your father, Ronald. Rita does seem to take much pleasure in pointing out even the most insignificant shortcomings of others, doesn't she?" Ron grimaced but didn't say anything.

"But it would be a mistake to keep her from trying to find the truth," the Headmaster went on. "I do not believe she will find anything or anyone who knows what happened to Gilderoy." His blue eyes looked at all three of them in turn. "Harry, I know, is capable of keeping his own counsel about what happened. How do you and Mr. Weasley feel about doing so? Can you keep your knowledge secret from her?"

"Yes," Hermione said firmly.

"I think so," Ron said, a bit less firmly.

"If you are unsure," Dumbledore told them. "I have a few ways of keeping that knowledge safe."  
"Such as?" Harry prompted.

"I can extract those memories from your mind," Dumbledore said. "While they are separate from you, you will have no knowledge of them, and thus cannot reveal anything about them. I have done this many times before." He stood and went over to his black cabinet, passing his wand over the locks several times before opening it and taking out a large stone basin and setting it on his desk. "This is a Pensieve," he said. Harry and the others looked at it. Inside the bowl was a silvery-white substance that seemed to move and roil of its own volition. "Here I keep memories that I may need again one day, but which have begun to clutter up my mind. Putting them in here orders my thoughts and allows me to think about them with much more clarity."

Harry stared into the bowl a moment longer, then looked up, shaking his head. "What else?" he asked.

If Dumbledore was disappointed by Harry's reaction he said only, "The other way is much more difficult. It involves a very complex spell called the Fidelius Charm, which will bind up the knowledge you wish to hide into the soul of a person, called the Secret Keeper, who will be the only person capable of telling anyone else that knowledge. While the Secret Keeper is alive, no one will be able to access that knowledge, not even if they try to compel someone who knows it with Legilimency, Veritaserum, or even the Imperius Curse. It will remain completely inaccessible."

"I can handle Skeeter," Hermione said confidently. "I don't need my memories removed, even temporarily, or hidden inside some Secret Keeper. And Ron can handle her, too!"

"I can?" Ron looked surprised, but when Hermione glared at him, he nodded vigorously. "Sure I can!"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, but— "As you wish," he said softly. "But please be careful. Rita is quite devious, and she has a proven record of discovering information that seemed otherwise impervious to her questioning techniques. Do not allow her to question you alone — that seems to be how she gets her information, in some way."

"We'll be careful," Harry agreed. "Well, I guess we should get going — it's almost time for dinner." He snapped his fingers and he, Ron and Hermione disappeared.

Dumbledore sighed softly and began ordering his desk in preparation for dinner. He would take his meal here, giving him more of an opportunity to get his paperwork under some semblance of control —

"I do have a question," Harry said as the three of them suddenly reappeared again. "Just what the heck is 'Harry Potter Day?!' Who the heck thought _that_ up?!"

"Harry Potter Day?" Dumbledore echoed. "I believe it is celebrated mostly in pubs and bars across Britain, commemorating the day you defeated Lord Voldemort." When Harry opened his mouth to protest Dumbledore held up a hand, silencing him. "We do not celebrate it here, Harry — the thirty-first of October is normally reserved for our Halloween feast."

"But there's a rumor we're celebrating it this year," Harry said. "Apparently since I've come to Hogwarts and all." He turned to gaze at Ron, who was carefully keeping his eyes off of Harry's face. "I don't really know who got the idea…"

"It was Ron," Hermione said suddenly. Ron's jaw dropped. "Oh, don't pretend," Hermione said to him, flatly. "I've heard you whispering about it with Fred and George for weeks now."

"I thought Harry would be _excited_ about it!" Ron said defensively. "We were going to have all of Harry's favorite foods and everything! Hagrid was going to decorate the Great Hall with items from his home in Little Whinging!"

" _That's_ not a good idea," Harry growled. "The Dursleys never wanted me. They made me stay in a cupboard under a staircase until the day I left. I never want to see them or anything from that house again."

"Oh," Ron muttered. "I forgot. Well, it doesn't matter because we couldn't find the house anyway. But Harry, I thought you'd be proud of getting rid of You-Know-Who!"

"You heard me tell Hagrid I don't remember anything about it," Harry retorted. "I've told you before, too! Haven't you been paying attention?"

"Probably not," Hermione spoke up. "Ron gets an idea in his head and he can't think of anything else."

"Thank you, Miss Buttinsky!" Ron snapped at her.

"You're welcome, Mister Cluelesssky," she snapped in reply.

"Okay, just stop," Harry said to both of them. "Look, if the thing's already set, then I'm not going to make a big deal over it. I just wish you'd said something to me about it before now, Ron."

"Right," Ron said, contritely. "Sorry about that, mate."

"Don't worry about it," Harry said. His attention went back to Dumbledore. "We'll be going now, sir." He snapped his fingers and the three of them vanished.

Dumbledore looked around the room once again, then spoke softly, "Majer, would you come here, please?"

A house-elf appeared, wearing a tea towel with the Hogwarts crest on it. "Sir wishes to have dinner brought up to him again?"

"Just some chicken broth tonight, Majer," Dumbledore said softly. "I seem to have lost much of my appetite in the past few minutes."

 **=ooo=**

 _Hogsmeade village  
_ _Three Broomsticks Inn and Pub  
_ _4:45 p.m. —_

The soft buzz of muted conversations in the premier drinking establishment in Hogsmeade was suddenly shattered as two people burst through the door — a blonde woman and a pale, paunchy man, both dressed in wizarding robes.

The woman looked around, singularly unimpressed by what she saw. "This is supposed to be the best place in town?" she muttered. "It's a dump."

At the bar Rosemerta, the establishment's proprietor, gave the two a steely glare. "May I help you?" she called out in a barely civil tone, having overheard the woman's remarks.

Skeeter walked over to where the buxom, dark-haired woman was standing. "I doubt it," she sniffed. "But this may be the best this town has to offer, such as it is. We need two rooms."

"For the night?" Rosemerta asked coolly.

"For the foreseeable future," Skeeter retorted. "I have a lot of investigating to do at that poor excuse for an educational institution."

"You mean Hogwarts?" Rosemerta said, a strong dislike of this woman beginning to build inside her. Hogwarts was the reason Three Broomsticks was a busy as it was — the staff came here regularly for evening drinks, and several times over the year students were allowed to come to Hogsmeade; many of them visited her establishment for drinks and to hang out with their friends away from the school itself. "What's wrong with Hogwarts?"

Rita raised an eyebrow at the woman. "Are you joking?" she sneered. "The old man that runs the place has been taking money from the government for years, with no accountability and no consequences when things happen to people! So far two teachers have gone missing this year and nobody knows where they are! Dumbledore won't tell anyone where they are — he practically flouts his secrecy in the Minister's face. Well, I'm here to get to the bottom of it!"

"You're Rita Skeeter, aren't you?" Rosemerta had finally recognized the woman. "You wrote a load of articles recently exposing the Ministry's secrets and excesses? And now you're turning around and working _for_ them? Talk about working both sides of the street!"

"What would _you_ know about it, lady?" Skeeter challenged. "You're off here in some backwater town, barely aware of what's going in the world, and you're lecturing me about my job?"

Rosemerta snorted. "Perhaps you shouldn't lower yourself to staying in a place like this, if you feel that way."

"Perhaps you're right," Rita snapped. She turned on her heel and walked to the door, her photographer following closely behind. "Perhaps we will go someplace else!"

"The other inn's down the street," Rosemerta jerked a thumb in the direction of the Hog's Head Inn. "Take the first side road on the left. You won't miss it."

"Thanks, Toots," Rita sneered, and left, slamming the door behind her.

Rosemerta grinned. Just wait 'till Skeeter had a look at what she was in for at the Hog's Head!

 **=ooo=**

 _The Great Hall  
_ _6:12 p.m.—_

Harry and Ron entered the Hall still wearing their Quidditch uniforms and Harry still carrying his Nimbus 2000 — Ron's school broom had been returned to the broom shed just outside the Quidditch pitch. They tottered tiredly over to the Gryffindor table and took spots next to Hermione, Lavender, Parvati and Fay. Darla, Harry noticed, was sitting with Dean Thomas, the both of them intent on their conversation.

"Hello, Ron!" Lavender said to him as they sat down. "How was practice today?" Ron grimaced. They hadn't left Dumbledore's office until 4:05, five minutes after Wood had started Quidditch practice, and he wasn't happy about them being late—not that they could explain why they were behind schedule.

"Oliver's really going batty over this game with Slytherin," Ron muttered, groaning a little as he reached across the table to grab a plate of roast beef. "He made Harry and me fly 50 laps around the pitch after practice was over."

Harry handed a bowl of mashed potatoes to Ron and slid the plate of roast beef close to his plate. "The only reason we aren't still out there is that I caught the Snitch in less than two minutes after he released it. He was so happy he let everyone else go five minutes early." He and Ron spooned gravy onto their potatoes and roast beef, then put heaping spoonfuls of corn on their plates and tucked in.

Hermione leaned closer and spoke quietly. "So what are we going to do about — that woman?" she finished, not wanting to say Skeeter's name aloud lest anyone hear her and start asking questions about what she knew.

"Nothing for now," Harry shrugged, talking around a mouthful of beef, potatoes and gravy. "We're the only ones who know anything, and we're not telling."

"I sure hope not," Ron mumbled. Both Harry and Hermione looked at him.

"What does _that_ mean?" Hermione asked. "She can't _make_ us tell her anything short of using Legilimency or the Imperius Curse on you, and the Imperius will earn her a life sentence in Azkaban."

Ron looked up from his plate. "What if she _does_ try to use it, though?" he asked, worriedly. "If she does, she could just forbid us from telling anyone. Then what?"

"That's probably _not_ how she works," Hermione speculated.

"And how would _you_ know?" Ron challenged her. "Been reading her how-to book on getting information out of people?"

"Of course not," Hermione retorted. "I think she tricks the information out of people, somehow. It probably has to do with talking to them alone, somehow, like Professor Dumbledore said."

"If she's alone with them she could just hit 'em with the old Imperius," Ron countered. "You told me once nobody can tell if you've had the Imperius Curse used on you because it affects your mind directly."

"All the more reason never to be alone with her," Harry said. "Remember that, Ron."

"I don't want to be around her at _all_ ," Ron said. "Not after the mean things she said about Bill and my dad!"

"Who are you talking about, Ron?" Lavender, sitting on the other side of Hermione, had leaned forward and was looking at Ron with concern. "Is some girl being mean to you? Tell me who it is and I'll show her a thing or two!" she said, fiercely.

"It's nobody, Lav," Ron said quickly.

"We were just talking about Rita Skeeter," Hermione put in. "She's been writing some pretty uncomplimentary articles lately."

"I _know_ ," Lavender agreed. "I've been reading her latest series in the _Prophet_. She doesn't pull any punches on the Ministry, does she?"

"No, she doesn't," Ron agreed, shaking his head. "I just wish she wasn't —" he shut up as Harry elbowed him in the ribs.

"Wasn't what?" Lavender asked, when Ron didn't go on.

"Er, wasn't doing stuff like that," Ron muttered, rubbing his ribs. "It's not very nice."

"Yeah, well the Ministry isn't doing very nice stuff lately, either," Seamus grumbled. Since Dean was chatting Darla up he had nobody to talk to, so he was listening to everyone else's conversations. "I think Skeeter's doing the right thing, calling the Ministry on the carpet for not keeping us informed about its activities. They're always keeping secrets from us!"

Hermione was looking at him in disbelief. "Have you _read_ those articles she writes? Some of the stuff she writes is terrible!"

"So?" Seamus shrugged. "Sometime the truth hurts!"

"Calling Bill Weasley a 'long-haired pillock' is the truth?" Hermione asked shrilly. "Saying Ron's father is a 'myopic, Muggle-loving moron' is the truth?"

"How would I know?" Seamus sneered. "I've never met either of 'em!"

"You watch your mouth, Finnigan!" Ron shouted.

Half the Gryffindor table was in an uproar, Harry saw, and the other half was either staring in shock or starting to join in. "Everybody CALM DOWN!" he shouted, standing and waving his arms in a gesture that hid the spell he cast over the table, hitting everyone with a calming charm. Everyone stopped talking at once, looking at each other in surprise.

McGonagall was hurrying over from the High Table. "What's going on here?" she demanded. "Mr. Potter?" she directed this question at him knowing what he was capable of, even if she couldn't say it aloud.

"Everything under control, Professor," Harry said, sitting down again and picking up his fork. "Some people were getting a bit carried away but we're all under control now."

"Very well," McGonagall stared at everyone a long moment, focusing especially on Fred and George. Nine times out of ten when something strange was going on they were at the bottom of it. But they looked just as surprised and confused as everyone else at the table. "See that things _stay_ under control," McGonagall commanded, then returned to the High Table.

A few minutes later Harry and Ron finished their plates. Ron reached for refills, while Harry stood and grabbed his broom. "Coming?" he asked Ron.

"Er —" Ron looked up at him, his hand on the mashed potatoes. "I think I need a bit more to eat. Quidditch practice made me hungry, you know?"

Harry smirked. Trust Ron to always be hungry. "Don't forget to take some to Scabbers," he said, clapping Ron on the shoulder. "I'll see you back in the common room."

"Right!" Ron cheerfully agreed, spooning more potatoes onto his plate and reaching for the roast beef, then the gravy and corn.

Harry walked toward the doors of the Great Hall, feeling a bit better now that he'd rested and gotten some food in him. As he passed the Slytherin table a familiar voice called out, "Nice dinner wear, Potter!" It was Malfoy, as usual. Harry ignored him as Malfoy and the other Slytherins with him snickered at Harry.

As he started to open the door Hermione suddenly joined him. "Where you going, Harry?" she asked.

"Back to the common room," Harry said tiredly. "Where'd you think?"

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione mused as she followed him through the door into the entrance hall. She moved next to him and lowered her voice. "I thought you might be planning to go spy on Skeeter a bit. See what she's up to."

"No, I wasn't planning to do that," Harry muttered. "Why do I care what she's doing right now? She's just coming back here tomorrow to question students about what they know about Lockhart."

"Could be," Hermione agreed. "But there's a lot of things going on in this school she could be writing about, if you know what I mean."

"I don't," Harry grunted tiredly. "What's there to know?"

They began walking up the grand staircase together. "Well," Hermione said, moving closer and speaking even more quietly. "Did you know that Mr. Hagrid was a half-giant?"

Harry looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "So? Who cares?"

"A lot of people would, Harry," Hermione said seriously. "They don't trust giants, not even half-giants, and if it got out Mr. Hagrid was one Professor Dumbledore might have to let him go if enough people complain about him being here."

Harry looked indignant. He'd only just gotten to know Hagrid better earlier that day, but the man seemed genuinely nice and he'd been interesting to talk to. "That's not fair," he said.

"Of course it's not fair!" Hermione agreed fervently. "And what about our new Defense teacher, Professor Lupin? Did you know he's a werewolf?"

Harry stopped and stared at her in disbelief. "Where are you getting this stuff?" he asked her. "How do you know all this?"

"Remember our class with him on Thursday?" Hermione asked. "He started out with that practical lesson on boggarts?" Harry nodded; a boggart was a shape-shifting creature that took the form of the worst fear of the nearest person viewing it. "Everyone had a go at the boggart with the spell Professor Lupin taught us at the beginning of the class."

"Everyone but _me_ ," Harry snorted. "He jumped in front of me as it was my turn to face the boggart."

"Right," Hermione agreed. "Do you remember what the boggart turned into when he did that?"

Harry paused for a moment. When Ron had faced it the boggart turned into a giant spider — appropriate since Ron was deathly afraid of spiders. For Neville it had turned into Snape, of course, since Neville was deathly afraid of the Potions Master. For Seamus it had turned into a banshee, and for Dean a severed hand. When Lupin stepped in front of him, the boggart had turned into a glowing white balloon, and Harry repeated that to Hermione.

"That wasn't a balloon," Hermione shook her head. "It was the full moon. That's what Lupin fears the most, the full moon, because it makes him turn into a werewolf."

"And again I ask, so what?"

"Harry, wizards hate and fear werewolves," Hermione informed him. "If one bites you, just one bite, you turn into a werewolf yourself. And there's _no cure_ for it! I read some months ago in the _Prophet_ that they've developed a potion called the Wolfsbane Potion — it keeps your mind calm when you transform, so you're not a danger to others. But you have to take it every night the moon is full, and it's very expensive to buy. You saw how plainly Professor Lupin dresses — I doubt he could afford the potion every month."

"You think Rita Skeeter would write articles about Hagrid and Professor Lupin if she knew about them?" Harry surmised.

"Of _course_ she would!" Hermione cried. "You saw how she acted in front of Professor Dumbledore today! She doesn't care about other people's lives, she only cares about getting her articles in the news! And Minister Fudge would probably rather have her writing about _anything_ other than him and the Ministry, so he's not going to stop her!"

Harry stopped at the top of the stairs on the first floor. "Are you going to bother me about this until we go and spy on Skeeter?"

"Maybe," Hermione said, smiling.

"Auugh," Harry moaned. "Fine." They vanished, reappearing outside Three Broomsticks, invisible and intangible. "This is where she's probably staying," he said. "Fred and George say it's got the best food and rooms in Hogsmeade." He passed through the door, and Hermione followed him.

The pub was in the middle of supper time. There were tables of locals having meals as well as a few strangers, obvious because of their traveling cloaks. Harry gestured toward the bar, where a large book lay off to one side. "That's the sign-in book, I reckon," Harry said, and they went over to it.

Hermione reached to open the book, but her fingers passed right through it. "How do I do this?" she asked Harry. In wordless reply Harry made a turning gesture with his hand, and the book opened to the last filled-in page, but there were no entries for that day in it.

"Huh, she's not here," Hermione said. "Where could she be?"

"Only one other place in town, from what Fred and George say," Harry answered. "Maybe they went to the Hog's Head Inn."

"That's a rough place," Hermione said. "Some of the older girls say the barman will sell anybody anything they want to drink, no questions asked, but none of them would want to go there after dark."

"Sounds perfect for someone like Rita Skeeter," Harry muttered. "Let's go." They vanished, reappearing outside the Hog's Head. Slipping inside, they checked an old ledger book lying on the bar in a puddle of stale beer. "There she is," Hermione said, pointing to the last two names in the book. "Rita Skeeter, c/o the _Daily Prophet_ " and "Bozo Muldoon, c/o the _Daily Prophet_ ," she read. "Why would anyone name their kid 'Bozo?'"

Harry shrugged. He pointed to the numbers written next to the names: 102 and 104. That must be the rooms they're in." He gestured once again and they appeared just inside the door of room 102.

The photographer, Bozo, was stretched out indolently on the room's bed, reading a copy of _Witch Weekly_ magazine. Rita Skeeter was seated at a small desk, one that obviously didn't belong to the room; she'd either conjured it or brought it with her. The handbag sitting on the desk was probably like Harry's suitcase, about to hold much larger objects than it looked. Skeeter had a nail file in her hand and was absently filing on her long, crimson red nails, sharpening the tips.

There was a third person in the room, with his back to Harry and Hermione, but they could tell instantly who it was from the tangled mess of black, greasy hair that fell to his shoulders.

"What's HE doing here?" Hermione whispered to Harry, who made a shushing gesture — he wanted to hear what he and Skeeter had to say to one another.

"It's curious that you would ask something like that of me, Professor Snape," Rita said lazily, blowing shavings off her fingertips. "The file on Gilderoy Lockhart that I received gave me more than enough information to ruin him in a single article. And Potter —" Harry's eyes narrowed as Skeeter chuckled. "Well, Harry Potter is a topic of interest I expect will keep me busy for months, seeing as he's out in the open again. What would I, or the readers of the _Daily Prophet_ , find interesting about your newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?"

"You might be surprised," Severus Snape replied softly. "He is more interesting than you think."

"In what way?" Skeeter asked, still concentrating on her nails.

"I cannot say," Snape replied, in a tone Harry took for frustration. "Suffice it to say, it would be worth your while to investigate him more fully."

Skeeter tossed the file back into her purse. "You can't tell me anything more about Gilderoy Lockhart, and you have nothing to say about Potter, either. And _now_ , you say I should investigate Remus Lupin but you can't tell me anything about _him_ either! You coming here is rapidly turning into a waste of time. I have better things to do with my time than listen to you tell me nothing."

"Like dinner," Bozo said from the bed. "I'm starving."

Snape shot the man a contemptuous glance, then returned his gaze to Skeeter. "Do as you see fit," he said with a shrug. "When the truth about Lupin comes out, you will see that you should have heeded my advice." With that, Snape turned and walked toward the door. Harry and Hermione stepped aside so he wouldn't pass through them. Without another word Snape flung open the door and departed, slamming it behind him.

"Interesting," Harry murmured after Snape was gone. "He wants her to check up on Professor Lupin." _That must mean Snape knows he's a werewolf_ , Harry thought. _Snape is trying to get Professor Lupin sacked_!

"We can't let Skeeter find out about Professor Lupin," Hermione said. "If he's exposed as a werewolf he'll have no choice but to resign. Or, if he doesn't resign, Professor Dumbledore will have to sack him."

"You're right," Harry agreed. "We have to keep her away from him."

"I don't know how you expect to do that," Hermione retorted. "We can't watch her 24 hours a day."

"We don't have to do that," Harry reminded him. He gestured toward Skeeter and she shuddered as if someone had thrown cold water on her.

Bozo noticed it. "Everything okay over there?"

"Nothing," Skeeter said after a moment. "These rooms are drafty — I must've just caught one." She stood. "Come on, then — let's get you something to eat so you'll stop whining about being hungry."

"That's more like it!" Bozo said. He rolled off the bed, grabbing his camera. Skeeter insisted he carry it whenever they were together — you never knew when a photo-op might present itself. They left the room; Harry heard the _click_ of the door being locked from the outside.

"I put a location spell on her," Harry explained to Hermione. "No matter where she goes, now I'll be able to find her in a moment."

"Brilliant!" Hermione beamed at him. She looked around the empty room. "What should we do now?"

"Now," Harry said. "We go back to the castle and wait for them to show up tomorrow." He snapped his fingers and both of them disappeared.

 **=ooo=**

 _The next day  
_ _7:30 a.m.  
_ _Gryffindor Tower—_

Ron was snoring softly as Harry left their dorm the next morning. Not having his class with Aunt Clara the previous night had let him catch up on his sleep, and he'd awakened around seven a.m. He'd taken a leisurely shower, then dressed in jeans, a pullover shirt and trainers. He stopped for a second at the foot of Ron's bed, wondering whether he should wake him or not, but Ron had such a peaceful, easy expression on his face that Harry decided to let him be. He smiled at Scabbers, stretched out asleep on the other end of Ron's pillow. That rat spent more time in Ron's bed than even Ron did, it seemed! Harry went on down to the Gryffindor common room.

The common room was half-filled with other early risers, including a table where Fred and George Weasley were talking quietly with Lee Jordan. Not being in any particular hurry (breakfast lasted two hours on weekends), Harry sauntered over to see what they were whispering about. At his approach, however, the conversion died.

"Morning, Harry," George said amicably, pretending they hadn't stopped talking at his approach. "Any plans for today?"

"Morning," Harry nodded to the trio, pretending he hadn't noticed their sudden silence at his approach. "Just thought I'd go have breakfast. What are you lot up to?"

"Just making plans for next weekend," Fred said casually. "It's a Hogsmeade weekend, you know."

Harry nodded absently. Ron had mentioned them, but only third-years and above were allowed to go. "So what do you do when you go there?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," George said airily, and Lee snickered.

"Actually, we have important reasons to go there," Fred said. "Our stash of Dungbombs is nearly gone, and we also have to replenish our supply of Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous Fireworks."

Harry laughed. Fred, George and Lee were the bane of Mr. Filch, the school's caretaker, always setting of Dungbombs in the hallways or shooting off fireworks at odd moments. "It's a wonder you haven't been expelled yet," he grinned.

Fred grinned mischievously in reply. "That's where our Map has come in so handy — Filch and Mrs. Norris can't sneak up on us anymore, and now that Mrs. Norris is out of commission until Snape can get a fresh batch of mandrakes to make the antidote for her, we've been running Filch ragged."

"Anyway," Lee said. "We're making up our shopping list for next Saturday. Is there anything we can get for you from Hogsmeade, Harry, seeing as how you can't go until your third year?"

"I'm good," Harry said. He wasn't going to mention that he could pop over to Hogsmeade any time he wanted. "Guess I'll head down."

Leaving the common room, Harry went to the castle's entrance hall and into the Great Hall. It was only about half-full of students. The weekends were a welcome relief after five days of bustling between classes and finding time to study homework and going to Quidditch practice; many of the lower years took the opportunity to sleep in or spend more time with friends.

Hermione was already sitting at the Gryffindor table, reading a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ as she absently picked at an omelet in front of her. Harry sat down beside her. "Hi," he said as he scooped fried eggs off a platter onto his plate. "I see you're getting an early start this morning."

"Mmm," Hermione said in reply, her eyes not leaving the paper.

"What're you reading?" Harry asked.

Hermione looked up, startled. "Oh, sorry," she said, setting down her fork but not the paper. "I didn't realize you were there. What did you say?"

"I asked what you're reading," Harry repeated patiently.

"It's the _Daily Prophet_."

"I can _see_ that," Harry retorted. "What article are you reading?"

Hermione pointed to where she'd been reading. "There's a short bio of Rita Skeeter in the paper this morning. I've been going over it — she obviously wrote it herself!" She pushed the paper over to where Harry could read it. There was a picture of Skeeter at the top of the column, giving him a haughty smile as she stared at him over the rims of her jewel-studded glasses. He read,

* * *

Ms. Rita Skeeter is the _Daily Prophet's_ premier reporter, with years of journalistic experience, bringing to you readers the straight dope on all aspects of the wizarding world. She tells it like it is, not what the subjects of her exposés want you to hear. You may not like Rita Skeeter, but you can't beat her for honest, objective reporting.

* * *

"It does sound a bit self-serving," Harry said matter-of-factly.

"A _bit_?" Hermione shook her head with incredulity. "I can't believe the _Prophet_ lets her get away with such dishonesty!"

A clinking sound from the High Table silenced the numerous conversations going on and turned their attention toward Professor McGonagall, who was tapping a glass with a fork. Standing next to her was Rita Skeeter, looking every bit as haughty and smug as her picture in the _Prophet_.

"Attention, everyone," McGonagall said as the noise died down. "This morning we have a visitor in the castle." From the tone of her voice Harry could tell that McGonagall was not happy about the situation. "I'm sure many of you know of Rita Skeeter. She is a reporter for —"

"The _premier_ reporter," Skeeter interrupted her, smugly.

"— for the _Daily Prophet_ ," McGonagall finished, ignoring Skeeter's condescending glare. "She will be conducting interviews today with students concerning the disappearance of our previous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart. Those of you who wish to talk to her may put your name on the sign-up sheet I have placed in the entrance hall. Miss Skeeter will conduct the interviews in the staff room." McGonagall turned to Skeeter. "Is there anything you would like to add, Miss Skeeter?"

"Thank you, Deputy Headmistress," Skeeter said, then turned to face the students. "As those of you who regularly read the _Prophet_ know, I recently published my exposé of Gilderoy Lockhart's fraudulent claims that he was responsible for defeating many Dark creatures over the past decade, as described in his numerous books. In the spirit of cooperation with the Ministry of Magic, I hope that by interviewing those of you who have had close contact with him can provide clues as to his current whereabouts. Those of you who talked with him during his time here are invited to share your experiences with me. If the information you provide is useful to the Ministry's ongoing investigation in apprehending Lockhart, your names will feature prominently in my follow-up articles about him. I look forward to talking with you. I will hold interviews beginning at 9:30 this morning. Those of you waiting to be interviewed may wait in the courtyard next to the staff room." Skeeter sat down, a satisfied smile on her face.

Students from all four House tables stood and began walking toward the entrance hall, obviously wanting to be the first to sign up. Within seconds a mad rush developed as dozens of students ran out of the Great Hall to sign up.

Hermione was shaking her head in disgust. "This is ridiculous! Skeeter is just going to take all the credit anyway! I can't believe all of those students fell for her line about getting their names in the paper!"

"Not like it matters," Harry shrugged. "Nobody knows what really happened except you, Ron and me. And none of us are going to sign up to talk to Skeeter."

"I know that," Hermione huffed. "It just seems like such a waste."

"At least we know where she's going to be all day," Harry pointed out. "And I've got— " Harry stopped suddenly, looking around.

"What's wrong." Hermione asked.

Harry didn't answer right away. He'd activated the tracing spell he'd placed on Skeeter, but it was telling him she was only a few feet from him, which couldn't be correct because she was several yards away, sitting at the High Table.

Hermione began looking around as well. "Harry, what's going on?"

Something on the table caught Harry's eye — a small beetle sitting on a floral table arrangement seemed to be looking at him. With his warlock senses he could see that surrounding the beetle's eyes were marking strangely reminiscent of Skeeter's jeweled glasses. As he watched the beetle turned and took to the air, flying further down the table from him and Hermione, where it landed on another table setting where the other first-year girls were gathered, chattering. He leaned closer to Hermione and whispered, "A beetle was sitting on these flowers a moment ago. It seemed to be listening to us. Then it flew off down to where the other girls are sitting."

"Really?" Hermione looked at the flowers, then glanced down the table. She was silent for several moments, then her eyes lit with a sudden insight. "That must be it!" she exclaimed quietly. "That's how she's been able to get dirt on people, Harry! She's an Animagus!"

"I remember Binns referring to an Animagus in class," Harry recalled. "But I never bothered to look up what it means."

"An Animagus is a witch or wizard that can transform into an animal form," Hermione explained. "Professor McGonagall, for example can transform into a cat."

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. "How do you know _that_?"

"The Ministry requires that all Animagi register their animal form," Hermione replied. "In case the witch or wizard dies while in their Animagus form, so they can be identified. Professor McGonagall showed me the current list. But I don't remember seeing Rita Skeeter's name on it." Hermione's face suddenly lit up with a smile. "That's very interesting!"

"Because…" Harry prompted.

"Because if you're an Animagus and you don't register your form with the Ministry, it's a serious crime and if they find out, you can be sent to Azkaban."

"Okay, but then how can she be sitting at the High Table at the same — oh," Harry realized. "The person at the High Table is probably Polyjuiced to _look_ like Skeeter, so she could say she was in plain sight while the _real_ Skeeter is buzzing around listening to our private conversations."

"Exactly," Hermione agreed. "The person sitting at the High Table is probably the photographer that came here with her. He must be in on it as well. Oh, that devious, evil woman!" she muttered, seething with anger. "We've got to stop her, Harry!"

"I agree," Harry nodded. "And I have a way _you_ can be the one to stop her."

"Really?" Hermione looked excited at the prospect of catching Skeeter red-handed. "How?"

"You're going to sign up to be interviewed by her," Harry smiled. "If Skeeter was listening to us she heard me say only you, me and Ron know the true story of what happened to Lockhart. I'm betting she'll be very interested to get that information out of us."

 **=ooo=**

 _The Hogwarts entrance hall  
_ _9:25 a.m. —_

Harry and Hermione unobtrusively left the Great Hall and walked over to the table where Skeeter's sign-up sheet was placed. Hermione picked up the quill and put her name down as Harry watched, then stepped back with a sigh. "I hope you're right about this, Harry," she said softly.

"I am," Harry replied confidently, then looked up the grand staircase as a surprised "Oi!" exploded from familiar lips.

"What's going on down here?" Ron demanded, hurrying down the steps to stare at the sheet Hermione had stepped away from. "What're you doing?" he asked her.

"I'm going to talk to Rita Skeeter about what really happened to Gilderoy Lockhart," she answered, staring at him evenly. "And now that you're up you can go in with me. Sign the sheet."

Ron shook his head, confused. "What?" he said, looking from Hermione to Harry. "I don't understand! Why would we talk to her about _that_? We promised we wouldn't say anything —"

The door to the north corridor suddenly opened and Skeeter practically ran into the entrance hall, staring at Ron and Hermione in evident pleasure. "Well, well," she said, her lips curling in a self-satisfied smile. "I must admit I'm glad to see you two willing to discuss your relationship with Lockhart. Especially you, Miss Granger," she added, putting an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "I'm sure you know quite a bit about him, being one of his favorites according to many students at the school — not to mention your relationship with Harry Potter."

Ron looked to Harry, starting to protest, but Harry spoke first. "I'm invisible to her, Ron," he said quickly. "She can't hear me, either. Though I use the term 'her' loosely — this person is really her photographer Polyjuiced to look like her." Ron shook his head, completely lost — he'd been hurrying down to get something for breakfast before it was over — now all of a sudden he was being thrown into a situation he didn't understand. And he was hungry! Harry, divining his thoughts, said, "Just follow Hermione's lead and you'll do okay. We're catching Skeeter at her own game."

"I think I'll interview you two first," the ersatz Skeeter said to the two Gryffindors, rubbing her curiously square jaw thoughtfully. "Come along, let's get set up." She led Ron and Hermione up the corridor into the staff room, a small office opposite the doorway leading to the castle's inner courtyard, with Harry following invisibly behind. Skeeter had them sit down on stools placed before a large plush high-backed chair, which was sitting next to the staffroom table. "I'll be right back," she told them, then hurried across the corridor to the courtyard, where Harry saw that two dozen or more students were sitting about, apparently waiting to be interviewed as well. The trace spell also told him that the real Skeeter was somewhere in this room, in her Animagus form. Evidently she was listening in on the whispered conversations of these students as well, getting an idea of what they knew or didn't know.

"Your interviews will begin shortly," the false Skeeter told those sitting in the courtyard. "Just remain patient and at ease — I'll call each of you in turn as soon as I'm able." She gave a slight jerk of her head — a subtle hint for the real Skeeter to join her in the staff room, then left the courtyard. Harry watched as a small beetle left a bush next to two or three students and flew through a crack in the courtyard door. Following her, Harry vanished, reappearing in the staff room behind Ron and Hermione.

The fake Skeeter was setting up her parchment and an acid-green quill on the table next to her. "Isn't that a Quick-Quotes Quill?" Hermione asked, pointing at it. "They're not very accurate…"

"Accurate enough," Skeeter said dismissively, otherwise ignoring her. "Besides, I want to be able to talk normally with the two of you. So how long have the two of you known Harry Potter?"

"Since the start of school," Ron answered without thinking. When Hermione glared at him he just shrugged. "Well, that's the truth, isn't it?"

"Yes, but we're here to talk about Gilderoy Lockhart," Hermione retorted. She turned to Skeeter. "At least, that's what I _thought_ we were here for!"

"You are," fake Skeeter said soothingly. "But this interview will be pretty open-ended. We can talk about anything you want to talk about — such as, what's Harry Potter been doing for the past ten years before coming to Hogwarts? Where's he been, who's he been with — anything at all you'd like to talk about."

The beetle had landed on the collar of the fake Skeeter's robe — which, being a dark blue effectively made it all but invisible. Its antennae were waving back and forth between Ron and Hermione — Skeeter was obviously keenly interested in what they might have to say about him.

"I don't know if we _should_ talk about Harry," Hermione was saying. "He's our friend, after all — we don't want to betray any confidences we have with him."

"That's very true," the false Skeeter agreed. "But a lot of folks are very interested in Harry Potter — do you really think it fair that only you two, for example, should know about his lonely, desperate life up until now? Poor Harry should be able to get those feelings out in the open and deal with them instead of keeping them bottled up inside himself. You would be doing him a great service by revealing what you know about him, you see."

Harry rolled his eyes at the attempt at manipulation. Skeeter and her stooge were looking for a story, nothing more. Hermione saw through it, too, as she cocked her head suspiciously at fake Skeeter's words.

Ron was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You might be right," he muttered, and Hermione elbowed him in the ribs. "What?" he said, glaring at her. "You know that makes some sense, right?"

"No it doesn't!" Hermione objected. "You know she just wants to trick you into telling her private stuff about Harry! We're not going to do that!"

"Are you sure about that?" the fake Skeeter said evenly, taking out her wand. Before either of them could react she pointed the wand at Hermione and said, " _Imperius_!" She repeated the spell on Ron. Both their faces became blank. "Now, tell me everything you know about Harry Potter," she said quietly.

Before either of them could say a word, however, Harry snapped his fingers and the fake Skeeter raised her wand and pointed it at her collar, saying " _Engorgio_!" The beetle there began to grow larger and larger. The false Skeeter leaped to her feet with a screech and knocked the beetle off of her. It landed on its back on the table, continuing to grow until it was nearly a yard long. It floundered there for several moments before transforming back into Rita Skeeter, who sat up on the desk glaring angrily at her double, who was staring at her in shock.

"What did you do to me?!" she rasped at the fake Skeeter.

"I don't know!" her double shrilled. "I didn't mean to cast that spell!"

"Well cancel it!" Skeeter shouted. "I can't use that form if it's that size!"

The fake Skeeter pointed her wand at her and said, " _Finite_ ," but when Skeeter transformed back into her beetle Animagus form she was still three feet long. "What's going on?!" she cried, changing back to human. "Cancel the spell, you idiot!"

"I did!" fake Skeeter screeched in reply. "I don't know what's going on —" she cut herself off as the door to the staffroom opened and Harry stepped inside.

"What's going on in here?" he asked, looking at the two Skeeters. "Why are there two of you, Miss Skeeter?"

"It's not what it looks like," Skeeter began, then frowned as she saw the smirk on Harry's face. "Potter! What's going on here?"

Harry closed the door behind him. "Offhand," he said smugly. "I'd say that your plan to get information on me backfired. According to Ministry records you're not a registered Animagus, which means if that information were made public you'd be in a spot of trouble, wouldn't you? And your body double here just cast Unforgiveable curses on two Hogwarts students, which would earn him a permanent stay in Azkaban if word got out."

"So what's your play?" Skeeter asked, her voice filled with impotent rage.

"Just that you two clear out of here and never return to Hogwarts," Harry said. "Because if you _do_ return, your Animagus form will grow large again, revealing you as an unregistered Animagus." That was the twist he'd put on Bozo's _Engorgio_ spell, adding his witchcraft to make it a permanent change.

"You could report me as one anytime," Skeeter pointed out, seething.

"No need, as long as you leave me alone," Harry shrugged. "And my friends," he added, looking toward Ron and Hermione. "You can take that _Imperius_ curse off them now," he said to the fake Skeeter, who nodded and pointed his wand at them, saying " _Finite_ " twice.

" _Polyfluis Reverso_ ," Harry said, and the fake Skeeter transformed into the photographer, still wearing Skeeter's dark blue robes. "Now, the two of you better get going before I change my mind and you end up as the headline on the _Evening Prophet_ ," Harry said warningly. Skeeter and Bozo hastily gathered their things and walked quickly out of the staffroom, through the entrance hall and out the front doors, where they hurried up the path to the entrance gates and exited the school grounds.

Harry, Ron and Hermione watched them go from the front steps of the school, smiling in satisfaction until Ron suddenly cursed. "Dammit!"

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked worriedly.

"I missed breakfast!" Ron grumbled, putting a hand on his stomach as it rumbled hungrily.

The main door of the castle opened again and Professor McGonagall stepped outside. "What happened?" she asked Harry and the others. "The Headmaster and I were informed by the wards that two non-students left the grounds."

"Skeeter left," Harry said. "And her photographer was here as well. He left with her."

"Very unusual," McGonagall muttered. "We were only aware of one person entering the grounds this morning."

Harry just shrugged. McGonagall stared at him a long moment. "Are you sure there isn't something you aren't telling me, Mr. Potter?" she asked suspiciously.

"I only know what I know, Professor," Harry said reasonably. "I can't tell you things I don't know."

"Hmmm," McGonagall said, entirely unconvinced. "Very well, then. For what it's worth, we are glad to see Ms. Skeeter leave the school without uncovering anything potentially embarrassing to the school or its staff." She stared out over the grounds. "It's a nice day for the end of October," McGonagall remarked. "Perhaps you should take advantage of it." She went back inside.

Harry watched her leave, then turned to Ron and Hermione. "Perhaps we should," he said, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "How about an early lunch in, say, Paris?"

Hermione smiled delightedly. "That would be fantastic, Harry! But are you sure you can travel that far with all three of us?"

"I've been practicing," Harry said. "And I know just the place, too — Aunt Clara had me take her there last Friday as a reward for my math scores. It's got a heck of a crème brûlée, too. Here we go!" He snapped his fingers and the three of them vanished.

=ooo=


End file.
